


Changes

by Loz



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst and Humor, Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Prior Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-27
Updated: 2011-04-27
Packaged: 2017-10-18 17:38:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 63,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loz/pseuds/Loz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before his death in 1980, Sam asks Gene to visit his young counterpart in 1987. By 1987 Gene has long come to terms with Sam's departure, but he knows that seeing him again, even a different version of the man he loved, will hurt. What he doesn't know is that eighteen year old Sam knows of Gene, has something close to a fixation.</p><p>Gene wants, desperately, to let Sam live his own life, a new life, Sam is young and he feels old. But he can't stay away. He's fascinated by the differences and similarities between the Sam he knew and the Sam who has just started training to be a police officer. And Sam --- well, he's stubborn, sure that Gene holds the answers to his questions, and attracted by a chemistry neither of them can adequately explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. never caught a glimpse

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written as a series of short stories over the period of a year. Thank you to everyone who helped shape this series, with special thanks to chamekke, talkingtothesky and basaltgrrl for hand-holding and encouragement. All of the titles come from David Bowie's song "Changes".

It’s bizarre, Gene thinks, as he stares at the kid on stage. How little some people change. This kid, with his serious demeanour and his awkward stance, he’s familiar in ways he shouldn’t be. That ever-guarded gaze, the jittering hand, how he looks too thin, like he could float into the sky with the puff of a summer breeze, but somehow has a rounded belly on him. He’s noticeably younger, no lines etched at the corner of his eyes, or around the full, attractive mouth that a bird would call ‘pouty’, but he just thinks of as there. There, but not to be touched. He’s got wavy, longer hair and pimples blemishing his pale skin. But it’s him, all the same, holding a guitar and singing back up.

This was a bad idea.

His Sam, his by virtue of having known who he was and maybe something more besides, he is long gone. A friend, more than, dead, but not buried. And Gene’s got over it. He doesn’t think about him every single day. Hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night reaching for his form for a long time, at least three years now.

But this Sam, he’s standing not yards away, and for all his discomfort at being in the limelight, for all his adolescent, gawky inelegance, he is vibrant. This is something Sam always was, until he wasn’t any more. Alive. There is the energy Gene most remembers, coursing through this young man’s veins, tightly restrained but itching to show on the surface. He can see Sam’s mind ticking overtime, myriad emotions flitting momentarily under the glare of a too-strong spotlight. He wants to go and goad him, get him riled up ‘til he’s fit to burst, indignant fury displayed in a white-hot glare.

A very bad idea.

After the first set, Sam sits with the other boys in the band at a table just off to the side and visibly relaxes. He no longer thinks he’s under any scrutiny, and maybe he shouldn’t be, but Gene can’t tear his eyes away. He watches as Sam downs a gulp of beer, his long and delicate neck exposed as he tilts his head back. Sam laughs as one of his band-mates speaks, the rich sound crossing the distance of the club towards Gene. It’s not only a sound he hasn’t heard for a long time, it’s one he heard rarely, and realising that twists something deep within him. Gene waits, wants to get Sam alone, but there’s another set to go and he doesn’t yet know what he’s going to say.

Forty minutes pass. Gene whiles away the time drinking, surrounded by kids he should probably book for contravening the legal age limit regarding alcohol consumption, but just considering that makes his head whirl. He smokes, absently flicking ash over the tabletop. The band isn’t bad, he thinks as they begin to play their second set. They’re not brilliant, but they’ve almost got it together, with everyone at least playing the right chords if they don’t always do it on time. Sam’s guitar playing is the most proficient of the lot, which Gene already knew, because ten years before and more than twenty years into Sam’s future, he’d gone undercover as a session musician to solve a kidnapping case. The mockery had been laid on thick from all sides, but in a quiet moment, Gene had asked Sam to play him some Rodrigo and during that performance Gene hadn’t only seen a player who was technically gifted, but passionate too. Before then, he’d always wondered why Sam hid behind procedure and regulation, but afterwards he’d realised that these structures gave Sam the scaffolding he needed. He was a man who had to step in 3/4 time, and when he did so he was beau--- well, he was many things.

Gene brings his mind back to the task at hand. Sam has stopped staring at the floor and is instead gazing at him, with a spark of something he shouldn’t have. Recognition.

Gene shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He didn’t expect this. This was not in the script. Sam continues to stare at him, like he can see his insides all knotted and gnarled, and there’s a hostility there alongside the vitality. Makes him think of packing it all in and retreating somewhere safe, and he hasn’t felt like that since he was six and his dad would clamber up the stairs to give him a talking to.

If this had been his idea, he’d have to seriously reconsider his sanity.

Six songs later, he is keenly aware of Sam putting his guitar down, giving a quick excuse to his band-mates and stalking over, but he doesn’t stay seated, he stands and winds his way through the club to the alley. A stiffness to Sam’s stance suggests there’s going to be a scene, and if so, Gene would prefer for it to be private.

The alleyway is dank and poorly illuminated. Sam’s band has chosen a complete shithole for their first performance, it has to be said. Of course, it’s likely there wasn’t much choice. Gene hasn’t lived here for a while, but despite what the newspapers bandy about, Manchester’s moved with the times, and with so much competition, new bands are lucky they get a look-in, let alone a place to be looked at.

The door clatters open after ten blissfully quiet seconds, and Sam stands there, tension etched in every twitch of his frame.

“What are you doing here?”

Gene could tell the truth, but he’s wondering how, exactly, this version of Sam knows him well enough to be indignant at his presence, so he stalls. “I’ve come to see a band, is that illegal now?”

“You tell me, you’re the one with the qualifications. Well, the semblance of them at any rate.”

“You know who I am,” Gene says, telling himself to ignore the arrhythmic beating of his heart.

“Everyone in this city knows who you are.”

“Not everyone. It’s been a long time since I’ve ruled these streets,” Gene states, wondering if it’s a case of mistaken identity and Sam’s going to realise and backtrack.

“Yeah, but I’ve got a very personal reason to hate your guts,” Sam replies. His eyes flash dangerously again, and for a second, Gene can forget he’s only eighteen. There’s forty years of anger there in that gaze and any moment now Gene’s expecting Sam to start punching him as retaliation for abandoning him in the river. “It’s coppers like you that I’m looking forward to replacing,” Sam continues with the kind of bitter vehemence that Gene learnt to realise meant he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

“Right.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“Actually, I think you’ll find I did.”

Sam squints into the darkness, shoves his head forward in a display of alpha male dominance that’s strangely convincing for a youth of his slight build. “What’s this, no tough guy posturing? No shoving me against the wall? Have you gone soft, DCI Hunt?”

Gene shrugs, hasn’t felt so confused for a long time. He’s always relied on knowing exactly what he needs to do, but Sam always did have a habit of making him question that. “Depends on your definition.”

“You gonna claim you’re not here for me, then? ‘Cause I saw you staring. You know who I am. Couldn’t not. I’m sure you’ve destroyed many lives, but my family would have to rate somewhere in the top ten.”

Gene gives a small nod and doesn’t care if it looks like admission of guilt. “I’m here to give you some advice.”

“This should be rich. Go on, then. Enlighten me.”

“Remember this. This anger. This drive. The job isn’t what you think it is. It’s not fulfilling the way you want it to be, it drags you down into a well of apathy most nights, but if you believe in yourself, in your convictions, in what’s right, you’re on your way to survival. The rules are there to guide you, not trap you.”

“And why do you think I need such hallowed words of wisdom?” Sam asks, dark eyes burning. “Or would want them from a scumbag like you?”

“Your mother.”

Sam recoils, then steps forward again, bouncing on the balls of his feet with frenetic energy. One of his hands has closed into a fist. “Liar.”

Gene can’t stop himself from goading, pulse racing at Sam’s obvious fury. “Really. She asked me to talk to you.” He pauses, is painfully curious, has to see how far he can take it. “As I gave her one from behind.”

For a slim teenager, Sam packs a hell of a punch. His angles hurt as they make contact with Gene’s flesh, an elbow jammed into his side and knuckles against his ribcage. Gene allows him to punch him a few times, welcoming the pain, then grabs hold of his arms and drags them behind his body, swinging Sam into the bricks, like he’d practically begged. Sam struggles, but he’s weak in this position, and Gene tightens his grip.

He’s not thinking straight. He’s not thinking at all. He has Sam in close contact again, smooth skin and harsh breaths, low voice calling him every name under the sun. He has body heat and that smell, the one that hurtles his mind back to office arguments and stakeouts, and stolen moments in shared spaces. He’s got those sharp lines and soft curves, that way of fitting against him perfectly, like there’s a piece of him missing for Sam to slot into.

“You’re a bastard,” Sam says for the seventieth time. “Let me go.”

“I can’t,” Gene says. He takes a gulp of air and ignores the throbbing at the back of his eyes. “I thought I had, but I can’t, Sam.”

“Great. You’re a sick fuck as well as a bastard, that’s just what I need.”

“Maybe it is.” Gene crowds in closer, swallows thickly as he brushes up against Sam’s denim, can feel the heat of his thigh and backside, knows it’s not the same, never could be, that the body against his is not the one he’s mapped a thousand times. Similar, but different in ways he can’t reconcile with what he wants and what he knows is best.

Sam’s tone changes, becomes wondering as well as mocking. “I’ve read and heard a lot about you, DCI Hunt. This is new.”

Gene relinquishes hold. He settles against the bricks of the club and looks at the damp concrete ground of the alleyway, because looking at Sam might make him forget such a thing exists. There’s a hole in the world and he’s going to fall straight down, into the depths of hell.

“You’re too young to know what love truly is,” Gene says, “but someone once told me it’s something you shouldn’t be afraid of. That once you’ve got it, you should never let it go. Emotion, Sam, it can seem like a burden, like it holds you back and keeps you from doing what you need to do, but without it, you’re nothing.”

“Well, thank you for stating the obvious. You can run along now. I’m sure you’ve other young men to molest,” Sam says scornfully, but there’s fluidity to his pose, a flush over his cheeks, and his gaze is a little too penetrating, and Gene starts to think --- no. He can’t think that.

“One other thing,” Gene adds, not moving. “Don’t stop playing. You’re talented. Plus, it’s a good way to pick up birds.”

“And blokes, I’d imagine,” Sam says with a derisive quirk of his eyebrow.

“If you want.”

Sam continues to glare at him, as if willing him to move, but Gene is drained. He knows that for his own sake he should never have done this, but equally that he really had no choice, and even though it hurts, it’s a good kind of pain because Sam is still there in front of him. Alive.

“If you’re not going, I am,” Sam says. He frowns at Gene, flexes his hands. “I’d prefer it if you never came to another one of my gigs, ever again. And if you so much as pick up a telephone receiver to contact my mum, I’m gonna search you out and beat you within an inch of your life.”

“You think you could do that?”

“I’d damn well try. Even if you would enjoy it.”

Gene catches a twitch at the corner of Sam’s lips that sends him reeling, and he’s about to move forward when Sam steps back. Sam turns on his heel and marches away, his sneakers scuffing the ground in a rhythm that reminds Gene of a waltz. He watches intently, eyes travelling the narrow width of Sam’s shoulders, and lets out the breath he hasn’t been conscious of concealing. His heart thumps painfully.

Seven years before, one month before Sam’s death, they’d been trapped together in some bastard’s cellar, disaster imminent, and Sam had told him everything. The facts and figures Gene had pieced together through whispered conversations with Annie, Sam’s own weird proclamations, and, for his sins, talking to Tony Crane.

“How does it work, this time travel lark?” he’d asked, because he’d believed Sam, but he hadn’t known why.

“I don’t exactly know. But I think my life split into two when I came here. Maybe more than two.” Sam had crinkled his nose, breathing out in soft, steady puffs.

“Why do you think that?”

“I went to talk to Ruth Tyler, my mother, five years ago and things were completely different. Not how I remembered them, not even close. But when I was in 2006 the second time everything was as it had been, so... I think there must be divergent timelines.”

Gene had rubbed his chin. “This is doing my head in.”

“I had to tell you, Gene, I owe you this much. I’m not long for this world,” Sam had said with the mockery of a quote. “I’ve been getting signs. Calls, really.”

“Why couldn’t you pretend you’re not bonkers, like everyone else?”

“You know me, I like to go against the grain.”

“You really think you’re gonna die here. You think I’d let that happen?” Gene had said, aware his throat was choked up, blaming it on the dust.

“If not today, there’s always tomorrow. Yeah. I think I’m gonna die. And it’s been amazing. Totally and absolutely, being here with you. But it’s been wrong.”

Sam had pressed paper into Gene’s palm. Gene had wanted to grab hold of Sam’s hand and never let go, but he hadn’t, he’d numbly glanced at the scrawled cursive.

“What is this?”

“It’s where you’ll find me. 1987. I could’ve chosen any time, any place, but this is a memorable one, because it’s the first and last time I played in public before that op we did three years back. I’ll be old enough to listen and young enough to make a change.”

“I don’t understand, Sam. What do you want me to do?”

Sam had opened his mouth twice, twisted his face up in confusion, become vocal with his hands, but it was only after a minute that he’d managed to get words to spill from his lips. He’d looked at Gene with a frantic kind of desperation, and the expression had made Gene’s insides clench, because he’d almost forgotten these moments of insanity.

“I don’t regret coming back here and choosing this life, but I’ve had my chance now. I got what I wanted. And I think, if it’s possible, the other version of me should choose the other life, the one I never really grabbed. Tell me to watch out. To be more open, to not be afraid to love. To trust in my instincts. To hold onto feeling and never let go. Please? Make sure I never get to a point where I need to jump.”

“And if you don’t believe me? If you make the same mistakes?”

“I guess there’ll always be a version of us, somewhere, in a parallel time or dimension or whatever you wanna call it.”

“You really are cracked.”

“Maybe. And you’ve been my glue, Gene. You know that, don't you? But I think, next time, it should be someone else.”

“Someone right.”

Sam had given a wry chuckle, clutched Gene’s wrist. “You’ve always been right in a wrong kind of way. Isn’t that your central ethos in life?”

“That’s your interpretation. I’m right in the right kind of way, if you ask me.”

“And I am asking you. Will you do it?”

“You already know the answer,” Gene had said. Sam had continued to look at him expectantly, eyes still a little too wide. “I will. For you.”

Gene leans against the wall and closes his eyes. It’s bizarre, he thinks, how little some people change. He feels every bit as broken now as he did before. And he tries not to encourage the part of him that hopes that this Sam is as stubborn and prone to ignoring wisdom as his was.


	2. time was running wild

The Glenlivet pools with comfortable warmth in his gut. He’s taken to the highly regarded single malts in lieu of readily attainable blends. It seems an easy way to regulate his consumption, and he’s always had expensive tastes. It’s not that he’s started to believe the quacks and cranks, or that he took any mind of Sam’s frequent admonishments on behalf of his liver, it’s just that a large part of him is inclined to want to drink to forget these days, and a smaller, more insistent part, doesn’t. He’s had a lifetime of self-denial for one reason or another --- though most would say the opposite’s the case --- but this feels healthier than all the other times. Like, if he can remember all the anguish, he’s working through it. It’s probably just another lie, but it joins the scotch, masquerading as consolation.

He props his legs up on his desk and half-listens to the whirr of a vacuum cleaner working down the hall. He thinks, once again, about that night in Manchester, four months ago. He’d had to do it, he’d made a promise, but he shouldn’t have, not really. Not for his peace of mind, not if he ever wanted a dreamless sleep again. Eighteen year old Sam hated his guts, and at first it had been a kind of thrill. He’d fed off Sam’s anger, had let it remind him of years gone by when he’d been pushed to his limits and forced to spring back or snap. But since then he’s replayed their conversation a thousand times and it’s unravelled him, piece by tiny piece. The thought that Sam will always think the worst of him, that he will grow old sneering at his name. It’s a kind of vanity, he supposes, but even in their darker moments --- and there had been many --- his Sam had always felt some form of affection, grudging though it may have been. There had always been a time when they could glance at each other and make it right; a smile, or a concession --- hell, a confession. Sam had seen the whole of him, not just his shell, not his mask of bravado, not only what he chose to show. Sam had seen everything. And that’s lost to him, now, has been for a while, and sense tells him it can never be reclaimed. But there’s the ever lingering note of futile hope. If Sam had learnt once, if he’d managed it before, couldn’t he do it again?

Time, Gene decides, is a bastard. It’s complicated and out of his control. He contemplates his bottle and screws the cap back on. He doesn’t get paid again until next Thursday and this has to last the week. Whilst it's tempting to rely upon the beneficence of others, he’s not so stupid as to pin all his chances on the kindness of strangers. He’s been around a long time, too long, really, and he’s never been very trusting.

*

There are stock phrases people use in these kinds of situations. They’re out of their depth, in a pickle, up shit creek without a paddle. Multiple prepositions, all indicating trouble. But whilst Gene thinks they’re all appropriate, none of them quite demonstrate the gravity of the dire state he’s in when Sam appears on his doorstep. If this were another year, and Sam another age, this would not be a problem. The stirring in Gene’s stomach would be something entirely different --- the effects of a curry, maybe, or irritable bowel syndrome. But this is not another year. It’s still 1987. Thatcher has just been elected Prime Minister for a third term and the radio won’t stop playing ‘Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now’; which, combined, is almost enough to incite Gene to murder. And this is very much the eighteen year old version of Sam picky-pain Tyler that Gene thought he’d never have to see again. That he’d promised himself he wouldn’t see again, over and over, like reciting a child’s nursery rhyme.

“What do you want?” Gene asks, keeping it short and sharp, and not at all sweet.

“Information.”

“Fenchurch Street hasn’t a direct link to the Underground, but if you go Crosswall-way you can get to Tower Hill station.”

Sam sucks his cheeks in and Gene thinks he could probably implode that way if he so wished. “About my father.”

“Oh, that? I can’t help you with that.”

Gene forces himself not to sound cagey. The truth is he really can’t help Sam when it comes to Vic Tyler, not as much as he’d likely think. He left all of that well alone, out of self and sanity preservation. The most he knows was that Vic had either got messed up in something dodgy, or orchestrated it, and he’d disappeared off the radar. He may have skipped the country, or been killed, or successfully adopted a new persona. The result was the same. He hadn’t resurfaced. Sam had searched for him, he knew that, but there had laid a revelation never given. If he’d ever known more, he hadn’t divulged the information to Gene.

Instead of waiting for the inevitable question, Gene asks one of his own. “How did you find me?”

“A bit of digging, some detective work, a lot of deduction. Other alliterative phrases you’ve no doubt never heard of.”

“Don’t try to have a battle of wits with me, Sammy-boy. I never fight an unarmed man.”

“Sammy-boy? That’s cute, that is. A bit familiar, but cute. Let me in, it’s freezing out here, and if your false construction of morality prevents you from fighting unarmed men, you’d hardly wanna be an accessory to murder.”

Gene steps to the side and watches as Sam saunters past, down the hall. He’s already developed the swagger Gene pictures when he remembers late night walks, half-cut and on their way to a crime scene. He rubs his hand against his chin as he regrets the past two minutes. Why couldn’t he have looked out the window before opening the door? What had prevented his basic survival instincts from kicking into gear?

The kid’s combined mixture of arrogance and confidence confuses him. Sam had said he was shy as a teenager, and Gene had believed him, because he’d remembered his own temperament before National Service, and personality-wise, no matter how much they each tried to deny it, they weren’t that dissimilar. He can’t believe that two Sams, no matter the differences in their upbringings, could be so divergent either. But this energetic, pushy incarnation acts like he knows Gene, is intimately acquainted, and that’s simultaneously confronting and reassuring. The words “I’ve read and heard a lot about you, DCI Hunt” echo in Gene’s mind, an unwelcome reminder of how close he’d come to breaking during their last encounter.

“Make yourself at home,” Gene calls, hoping the thickness of his sarcasm is apparent to immature, supercilious ears.

“I shall, thanks a lot,” Sam calls back, and Gene rolls his eyes as he walks into the lounge and sees Sam with his boots on the coffee table, hands entwined behind his head. He looks as relaxed as any man of a household ought; all loose limbs and lazily satisfied countenance. Gene knows what’s going on --- Sam’s asserting his dominance. He can tell he rattles Gene and he’s capitalising on it.

Worse still is the realisation that Sam knows in part why he’s so dangerous. It’s too tempting to loom over the languid pose, to drag his hands up and hold tight, nudge his legs apart as he kisses every inch of exposed skin. He’s all corners and no finesse, but Sam is alluring and he knows it, knows how he makes Gene feel. Not the full extent, he’d never get that, but he’s in tune with the physical reaction well enough.

“So, you were telling me about my dad,” Sam says, adopting a tone that’s vaguely intimidating, and it’s strange how genuinely threatening he manages to be. There’s a reckless, unrestrained air to him that’s unsettling.

“Did you want me to be honest, or give you the fairytale your mum no doubt fed you?”

“Well, clearly, all I can expect from you is your biased opinion, but it’ll help me piece it together,” Sam replies, eyes diamond-hard beneath lowered lids.

“You seem like a smart lad, well-versed in your local history. In your travels, have you come across references to the Morton brothers?”

“Yeah. According to all accounts, they were a nasty piece of work. What was it, again? Gambling, porn, and menaces?”

“Something like that. I arrested your dad in pursuit of the Mortons. Far as I could make out, he was either working for them, or he was them.”

Sam’s relaxed pose gives way to him lurching forward. He narrows his eyes. “Give over. Was them?”

“Do you want me to tell you everything or do you want me to kick you out on your arse?”

“Everything. Every last detail,” Sam says, voice coarse.

Gene tells him the story he can, omitting Sam’s own involvement. He watches curiosity transform into scepticism into disgust. Sam’s expression is unguarded, raw, and Gene ignores the voice that tells him it’s cruel he should have to witness this twice, tells himself the pain on Sam’s face means nothing to him.

“When we went to bring him in he beat one of my officers. A WPC. He pulled a gun on one of the others. He escaped, and I haven’t heard of him since. Thing is, no one ever heard of the Mortons after that either.”

Gene takes a deep breath and waits for Sam’s predictable reaction.

“And why should I believe anything you say?”

“Why would I lie to a snot-nosed little ponce like you, eh? I could grind you to a pulp and use you as a garnish on my corned beef hash."

Sam’s eyes flash and Gene stops himself from stalking over and returning the heated look with heated touches. “You must have noticed by now I’m not the kind to sit meekly by and let you have an easy run of it.”

“Maybe not, but I’m twice your size, more than twice your age, and where there’s a will, I have a way, of that you can be sure.”

Gene crosses his arms and attempts to glare, but his heart’s not in it. Sam may have a good show of pomp and bravery, but he’s still just a young man, confused and angry. He doesn’t yet understand the injustices in the world --- never truly understood them the first time around --- and he gives the distinct impression of a lost soul.

“Look, I don’t feel any remorse for splitting up your family. Your beloved father was a crook. I’m not gonna apologise for having done my job. I may not always have done things the right way, but I always tried to do the right thing. I can get you access to the evidence, everything you need to see. Don’t have it on me, obviously, ‘cause I’m not loop-de-loo.”

They’d doctored the evidence, of course. Sam had removed every trace of himself from reports and statements, but this Sam doesn’t need to know that. He hunches his shoulders and sinks deeper into the settee.

“This didn’t go the way I expected,” he says, a lot less confident.

“How so?”

“Well, I believe you, for a start, you fucker.” Sam sighs and he looks older than his years, and Gene doesn’t think before he settles next to him on the settee.

“Mum’s always been as sparse as she can with the ins and outs,” Sam continues, staring at his hands. “But sometimes it just doesn’t make sense. There’s rife inconsistency there, between her attitude when she speaks about my dad, and her rose-tinted histories. I’ve known for a while he wasn’t exactly a model citizen, but I’d hoped he was a good man.”

“He may have been,” Gene says, contradicting his earlier conviction --- wondering how Sam has always managed to make him do that. “Like I said, he disappeared. Maybe he brought the Mortons down.”

“You don’t really think that.”

“No.”

“No. You’re a lot of things, but you’re not an idiot. As we’ve pointed out, I’ve done my research.”

“Why not just live your life, Sam? Accept the past as been and done and grab opportunity by the short and curlies?”

“Because I have to know, don’t you get that?

“Not really. You’re on a one-man crusade, for what?”

“The truth.”

Gene laughs, full-bodied and irrepressible. His earlier confusion and anxiety that the person before him is nothing like the person he knew vanishes. That absolute certainty is unmistakeable. The drive, the conviction.

The truth. It’s as complicated and uncontrollable as time. One person’s truth is another one’s fiction.

Sam sneers. “Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you. I wanted to mock you, I’d be commenting on your knobbly knees and gormless manner. I’d ask if drowned rat was a style, and if so, were you crowned king? I admire you in your quest for the truth. I envy it. But there’s never gonna be one answer, you do know that?”

“Maybe not. But any answer seems better than nothing. I wanna know who I am.” Sam gives the wry, self-deprecating smile Gene had always looked forward to seeing, since it often indicated he’d won whatever battle they were waging. “Because I’m a walking cliché.”

Gene watches Sam’s fingers twine as he holds them in mock supplication. Sam sighs again, glancing at Gene with a weariness he shouldn’t have.

“Do you drink? Apparently you shouldn’t, it’s described as a filthy habit. But if you do, I’ve a scotch that’ll take the edge right off your disillusion.”

“My mother always warned me against taking drinks from strangers.”

“But you know you can’t rely on everything she’s ever told you.”

“Oh, so you mean when she said she’d never asked you to talk to me in August she was telling a bald-faced lie?”

“Naturally.”

“See, this, I don’t believe.”

Sam looks at Gene like he can read him, see each word in every sentence in all the paragraphs that comprise the story. The metaphors, the similes, the extended descriptions that likely need editing. It’s another expression that’s all too familiar, and it makes Gene hope.

“Any big plans now you’re in the Big Smoke? Off to find a cheap backpackers and sightsee?”

“Thought I’d stay here tonight. You may feel no remorse, but the very least you owe me is a place to rest.”

“Hang on, you won’t accept my Glenlivet, but you’ll take my bed?”

The arrogance --- that Gene recognises must at least have been partly faked --- returns, and Sam raises an eyebrow. “I was hoping for the sofa, but, okay, sure.”

Gene shakes his head, but can’t create a suitable response. It’s occurred to him that Sam was only ever hoping for confirmation of what he already knew, and if that’s the case ---

“Why did you really come here? Boy of your smarts could have figured it all out on his own.”

“I’m not a boy to you,” Sam says. “You say these words but you look at me like --- there’s a kind of certainty, an understanding. So I am curious, DCI Hunt, how you seem to know me better than anyone else.”


	3. the taste was not so sweet

There is nothing angelic about Sam when he sleeps. He drools, fidgets, even mutters occasionally. Even if he hadn’t been watching for the better part of an hour, years of having him sleep by his side have taught Gene this. But looking at him lying on his too-large bed tugs at Gene’s insides. Sam’s long hair flops down over his left eye and his lips are soft in repose. He looks even younger than he is, without the maturity of disaffection and cockiness to temper his lack of experience.

They’d gone for Indian at the local, Gene ignoring the curious looks winged their way. It’d happened before, more than once, and he’d learnt not to care. No one ever asked for explanation, they only liked to look (and talk, no doubt, there was nothing like a juicy bit of gossip to keep the spirit alive.) He understood. He’d done his fair share of gawping in his time, not all in the line of duty. Sam had gobbled down his weight in naan bread, chicken vindaloo, maa-ki-daal, and to top it off, gulab jamun. Gene came to the conclusion it was entirely possible he was ninety percent hollow. Sam also demanded the answers to various questions he had concerning policework, and was adept at noticing when Gene was deflecting.

“Look, this isn’t Mastermind, and my speciality isn’t ‘random shit some little tossbag happens to be curious about’. I don’t know what your next subject’s gonna be, but my answer’s a heartfelt and vigorous shut it.”

“You get awfully tetchy when I ask something pertinent.”

“I’m terminally tetchy.”

Sam had given a short-lived but forceful grin. “Exactly. I’m perennially pertinent.”

“You’re too amused by your own intelligence, is what you are.”

“Hey, you’ve said it yourself. I’ve got smarts.”

Gene had concentrated on loading a fork full of saffron rice and chicken korma. “Mmm-mmm. The wisest men realise they don’t know everything.”

“Oh, nice. Did you read that in a book?”

“You think I read books? Your estimation of me’s gone up two notches, I see.”

“Maybe even three!”

Gene hadn’t let himself return Sam’s humour-filled glance. He’d eaten his dinner without tasting a thing and rendered himself monosyllabic in the process. He had been allowing himself to enjoy the company, and that was bad. He’d been allowing himself to enjoy Sam’s growing near-friendliness, and that was worse.

Sam had noticed his change in attitude and adjusted accordingly, become suitably wary again, quiet, but once they’d got back to Gene’s place, he’d tried his domineering act.

“So, the bed. We gonna share?”

Gene had refused to look or sound shocked. “Audacious little girl, aren’t you, Samantha? No. I’ll take the settee.”

“You’re too tall,” Sam had asserted, but Gene had picked up on his relief. He’d breathed more freely, stretched his legs out longer, had stopped peering at him from beneath lowered lashes.

“I’ll manage.”

“It appears I’m not the only walking cliché. You might as well have said ‘I’ll be fine.’”

Managing, Gene reflects, is not the same as being fine. If he were fine he’d be asleep, not a thought in his head. He wouldn’t be dreading the morning, nor squirming with reminisces of the afternoon and evening just gone. He wouldn’t be propped up against the arm rest so as to look through the open doorway at Sam’s sleeping form. Fine connotes a form of healthiness. Managing suggests no such luck.

*

By the morning, Gene has snatched a combined total of three hours and twenty minutes in sleep, which he reckons is more than to be expected. He percolates some coffee (strong stuff definitely necessary in place of instant) and fries eggs and bacon. He suspects it’s the smell that awakens the fair prince from his slumber. Sam pads into the kitchen wearing only his shorts, scratching his side and yawning simultaneously. Gene averts his gaze from his lithe but imperfect form. He definitely does not concentrate on the birthmark on his right hip, a hair’s breadth above his waistband. Sam stretches, shaking his limbs out, then settles in a chair. He winds his legs behind the chair legs and crosses his thin arms. Gene once again has the impression of a man comfortable in his arena.

“Morning,” Gene says, gesturing to a mug.

“Don’t I even get a ‘good’?” Sam asks, nodding back.

“Don’t see what should be so good about it.”

Gene pours another coffee and adds half a teaspoon of sugar. Sam takes the proffered mug and drinks it unquestioningly, which makes a nice change.

“You’re out of my hair today, right?” Gene asks as he plates up the breakfast, pausing momentarily to watch Sam cram an entire rasher of bacon and half an egg into his mouth in one go. It’s both sickening and oddly fascinating to watch how quickly the food disappears.

“I was thinking you owe me a guided tour. London in all her majesty. The Old Bailey and St Paul’s Cathedral. The Tower of London and Tower Bridge. The Lamp That Never Goes Out. I wanna see it all.”

“You can see it all by yourself. I’ve fed you and housed you, much to my personal cost. Mary, Joseph and the little baby Jesus weren’t treated as well as you.”

“You’re telling me you’d let an innocent roam these streets alone? What kind of monster are you?”

“A scummy one, so you’ve told me. Anyway, you’re from Manchester. If you can’t take care of yourself by now, you don’t deserve to live.”

“Something tells me you’ve not done the main attractions thing. I bet the best you’ve seen of London are the grimy cobbled alleys and decrepit crack dens. Aren’t you a little bit curious?”

“No, why should I be?”

“’Cause you’re a cop and they’re generally inquisitive.”

“It’s the same, no matter where you go. It’s always the same. Travel’s for fools with money and no sense. Why bother going out of your way to visit one building when there’s seven others all much of a likeness round the corner? A museum is a museum is a museum. They’re all full of irrelevant old clutter.”

Gene doesn’t say ’like me’, but he thinks it. He hopes he’s been deterrent enough that Sam will leave in a fit of pique and never come back. He hopes he hasn’t.

“You appal me,” Sam states, but he says it with a laugh in his voice.

“Good. Now you can see I’d be less than ideal as a companion. Go have fun, Sam, and then go home.”

Sam grips onto the table in mock refusal, like a five year old who doesn’t want to go visit Gran. Gene hopes it’s a joke. “I’m not budging. I’m gonna stay here all week. Pestering you. Until you crack and acquiesce.”

“Suit yourself.”

There’s a moment’s pause, and then, “how many criminals have you fit up? Hang on, I have a better one. How many innocent people?”

Gene eats his bacon and begins to tear his bread into soldiers. If he continues to eat in lieu of answering, he’s going to stack on a tonne of weight, all his carefulness with healthy scotch consumption be damned. He doesn’t know why he remotely cares.

“Have you ever killed an innocent man? Or watched one die ‘cause of your fuck ups?”

“If you hold me in such high esteem, why the fuck do you wanna drag me round with you?” Gene storms.

“I don’t wanna lose myself in a strange city.”

Gene thinks about thumping Sam. He’s sure it’d make him feel better. A tap against the fleshy part of his belly, not too hard, just enough to shock him, force him into sense. But that would require touching Sam, and that’s something he’s vowed absolutely not to do.

“Alright,” Gene says. “You get one day of sightseeing with the Gene Genie. After that, you’re on your own.”

“Gene Genie?” Sam says disbelievingly. “You’re full of ‘em, aren’t you?”

“Yes I am, Felicity. Now get changed. I’m not wandering about Hyde Park with you in that state.”

Sam surprisingly follows the order without objection. He practically runs out of the kitchen and to Gene’s room, Gene listening with too much interest to the sounds of clattering and clambering coming from behind the partially ajar door.

Footsteps are interrupted with an exclamation. “Shit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Spilt curry down my shirt last night. Can I borrow one of yours?”

Gene widens the bedroom door. Sam stands staring into the wardrobe. He brings a green shirt out and holds it against himself. “And fashion it into a tent,” he mutters.

“I can’t help it if you’ve no meat on your bones,” Gene retorts.

Sam whirls around and Gene’s happy to see he’s surprised. He pulls the shirt over his head, but it’s so large, it practically drops right down to the ground again around his skinny frame. He looks laughable with the material gathering around him, top two buttons undone to reveal most of his chest. Gene doesn’t laugh.

“I’ve a shirt that’s more your size,” he says, going to the back of the wardrobe and opening a suitcase. He pulls out a brown and blue striped shirt, fingering the collar absentmindedly as he hands it over. It smells of mothballs and musk, but apart from that, it’s pristine.

“Oh wow. It’s like I’ve hopped in a time machine,” Sam says wonderingly as he puts it on. It’s still too large, but not so much that it will pool around his ankles. The wide collar brings attention to his slender neck and delicate collar-bone, and the colour highlights his eyes.

“Hang on,” Gene says, quietly. “I’ve something else here that’ll complete the picture.”

He undoes the chain around his neck and brings it against Sam’s. His skin is soft under the pads of Gene’s fingers, warm and smooth. Sam stands stock still as he fastens the chain again, his gaze interrogative. He only moves to touch it when Gene’s stepped away.

“What’s this?”

“St Christopher. Patron Saint of travellers. And now you look a right medallion man, which is the only way those shirts can be worn,” Gene says lightly.

“Where are we off to first?” Sam asks, in an obvious bid to change the subject. He concentrates on tying his laces.

“You decide,” Gene replies. “This is your show.”

“Tower Bridge,” Sam decides. “And then the Tower of London. And then we can just sort of meander from there.”

“Your organisational skills leave a lot to be desired,” Gene says as he leads the way outside. “I’d’ve thought you’d have an itinerary all drawn up, with scheduled toilet breaks and carefully delineated time limits at each attraction. But, no. You travel to London without an extra set of clothes, you rely upon the kindness of a stranger when you get here, and you’ve no idea what you want to see or do.”

“It was all last minute,” Sam admits.

“You’ve run away.”

“Sort of.”

“Does your mother know where you are?”

“She’s off on holiday. Majorca. My aunt won a five night, all expenses paid trip.”

“Lucky for some.”

Gene glances at Sam and frowns at the hint of a smile playing on his lips. Sam strolls along with his hands in his pockets, a swing in his step. If his hair were shorter, Gene could almost convince himself it was a decade earlier.

*

Gene’s never liked London. To his mind it’s grey, overpopulated, and soulless. No one truly knows anyone else and the people who do know each other typically hate one another. He supposes he could have found his niche and settled into it, but he’s always felt like an outsider. The disgraced sheriff, cast off into a frontier town, never allowed to return. It’s not really true. He knows it. This was a promotion, at the time. More money, more responsibility; all in deed, not in rank. And as for why he’s stayed long after those who came with him went back, well. He’s in self-made exile. Manchester holds too many memories, many of them painful by dint of being joyful.

Sam clearly loves the place. He stares at buildings with the kind of awe and wonder Gene associates with simpletons. He’s easily impressed and gut-punchingly enthusiastic, even through monotonous guided tours. He is every inch a tourist, and all that entails. They see Tower Bridge, the outside and inside of the Tower of London, and make plans for their next trip to St Paul’s. Gene admits to himself that he enjoys the Tower of London. The Yeoman Warder tour is informative, even if their particular host does sound half-dead, and the Crown Jewels are a spectacle. He experiences a somewhat vicious and vicarious thrill from viewing the graffiti in Beauchamp Tower. For a place he proclaimed to be like any other, it’s not quite like any other.

He realises early on that he should be showing Sam the real London. The little places no one hears about, the hidden treasures and rare excitements, but Sam seems happy with the commercially exaggerated attractions. He chatters animatedly as they journey to St Paul’s, mostly recounting facts he probably learnt in secondary school. Sam has always seemed to take great pride in his own knowledge, dispensing his wisdom without considering the notion that he’s saying nothing new to his chosen audience.

“I’m hungry,” Sam says after a time. “Is there a café round here?”

“Café?” Gene echoes. “Nothing so classy. It’s a ham roll palace for you.”

He tugs Sam in the direction of a roadside kiosk and orders without consultation. There’s no doubt in his mind that he’ll be expected to pay.

“Two cheese and pickle rolls? One for you and one for your son?” the girl checks, looking fretfully at the line-up building behind Gene.

Gene opens his mouth to correct her, but Sam interrupts before he can. “Can I have an ice cream later, Dad, can I, can I?” His eyes are alight with mischief.

“Two cheese and pickle rolls,” Gene confirms. “But they’re both for me.”

When they’re once more on their way, and he’s reluctantly handed over a roll, Gene glances balefully at Sam. “You’re an infuriating little shit, anyone ever tell you that?”

“Never,” Sam says. Gene’s positive he’s lying.

*

This guided tour is markedly better than the last. The guide knows what she’s talking about and she’s infectiously enthusiastic. Sam is in his element. He seems especially interested in the crypt, asking questions that Gene thinks are overly morbid. He knows he shouldn’t let it disturb him, Sam’s merely displaying a typical youthful fascination with the gruesome, but he’s disturbed all the same. Thinking about death with Sam so alive next to him creates an uneasy feeling deep in his being.

Eventually they finish the tour and find themselves at the Whispering Gallery, with Sam eager to climb higher. Gene takes deep, shuddering breaths, looking at the stairs with pained horror.

“The view will be spectacular,” Sam insists. He grabs hold of Gene’s sleeve and drags him up.

On step four hundred and twelve, Gene’s chest is so tight he has to stop. “Go on without me.”

“You’ve come this far.”

“Leave me to die, Tyler. I cannot and will not make it.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes you will, old man.” He takes Gene’s arm again and pulls, relentless in his mission. When they finally make it to the top, Gene thinks his face is one big bead of sweat. He struggles to fill his lungs and stop his heart from racing.

“Look,” Sam says. He spreads his arms out wide. “We’re at the top of the world.”

“Don’t be so melodramatic.”

Gene surveys the panoramic view, at London spread before him. It still looks grey, overpopulated and soulless.

“Doesn’t it just make you wanna go home?”

Sam shakes his head vigorously. “No. D’you think we could go to the British Museum next?”

“That’s best left for when we’ve more time in our pockets.”

“But you said you’d sightsee for one day. One solitary day.”

Gene hesitates. It’s an obvious ploy. Sam’s manipulative streak is thinly veiled, and he doesn’t even attempt to be surreptitious. “I’ll make it two. I may even add in another half, long as you play your cards right.”

“The Old Bailey, then?” Sam asks, fairly bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Fine,” Gene replies, with considerably less generosity than he feels.

*

At the end of the day, Gene’s happy to rest his feet on his coffee table and let Sam cook. He doesn’t count on Sam having culinary skills that are approximately equal to that of a keen but ineffective badger. Sam burns the toast, the beans, and the cheese he attempts to use as a garnish. He almost tips the whole lot onto the floor when bringing it into the lounge.

“Do you not have a kitchen, where you live?” Gene asks, after a particularly crisp baked bean.

“I do, but I don’t have to cook in it.”

“I hope for your sake you learn.”

Gene crunches through his toast and thinks about the wide array of dishes he’d once had made for him. He thinks also of his own prowess in the kitchen, which is only marginally more advanced than the travesty set before him. He’d always assumed Sam had a natural gift for that kind of thing, and maybe he did, but it’s clearly something he taught himself. It’s an almost consoling thought, the first he’s had all day.

Sam doesn’t seem to mind the close-to-inedible blackened goop. He swallows it down without pause and even looks at Gene’s bowl as if scouting for seconds. Gene hands it over without a word. He watches as Sam polishes that off and stands to get himself another slice of bread. A point in his favour is when he returns also carrying a marmite sandwich that he places neatly in front of Gene.

“Sorry,” he says with an awkward raise of his shoulder.

“No need to apologise,” Gene states. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve done for me since I met you.”

It isn’t the truth, not by a long shot, but it brings another wry smile to Sam’s face, and Gene thinks --- God, he must be mad for letting this happen.

He’s gratified when Sam starts to yawn. He yawns himself and uses it as an excuse to tell Sam to go to bed. He’s met with initial resistance, but after several minutes of argument, Sam trundles into the next room. Gene’s left once again lying awake, but this time it’s only for an hour before he drifts off, comforted by mental imagery that shouldn’t relax him.

*

Gene calls in sick early in the morning. Thankfully, no one at Fenchurch East cares. He’s the first to admit he hasn’t been his best lately and they get by without him as well as they get by with him. He realises Sam’s raided his wardrobe again when he comes out wearing a shirt comprising pink and purple stripes. He goes to say something, but refrains. It’s pointless having a suitcase of clothes that’ll never get worn anyway (and it’s not like Sam’s using someone else’s property.)

They spend the entirety of the day at the British Museum, the National Gallery, and the Tate. Sam is taken most by the Turner collection in the Clore Gallery. He stands for a long time gazing at Fishermen at Sea.

“It’s about power,” Sam says when Gene raises an eyebrow at him. “Power over nature. Or the lack-thereof.”

’It’s about drowning’, Gene thinks, and wonders how prescient Sam is, whether part of him is aware of his fate. He shivers at the thought, and only reminds himself it’s not his fate any more once he’s mentally recounted first hearing the news. He can still accurately pinpoint the moment his heart stopped beating, can remember his disbelief. But it hadn’t really been disbelief, because Sam had told him this would happen. It had been wonderment that the world could be so cruel.

Gene reckons he’s walked more and learnt more in the past two days than in the past twenty years. Very little of his new information is all that useful, but education isn’t always about practical applications. He’s glad once again to get back to his place, but he’s wholeheartedly liked the day spent observing and engaging. Sam was right, he hadn’t ‘done the main attractions thing’, never seen much point in it before. He could get used to it.

They go for takeout when it comes to dinner. It seems the safest bet. Fish and chips with salt and vinegar, and for Sam, tomato ketchup. Gene turns the television on and half-watches, concentrating more on Sam’s legs sprawling over his lap.

“Comfortable?” he asks with false pleasantness.

“Perfectly,” Sam returns.

If it’s still a power game, Sam’s good at concealing it. He appears oblivious to the fact his contact is like a firebrand. He doesn’t care that Gene’s trying hard not to run his hand up his leg, pull him over until he’s straddling his thighs. That Gene imagines undoing Sam’s buttons one by one, kissing his slowly revealed skin. But he does notice that Gene’s staring at him. He casts an inquisitive gaze his way, mouth opening as if about to speak.

“I think you should either journey on alone or catch the train tomorrow, Sam,” Gene says before he can say anything.

“You’re rescinding your offer of an extra half day?” Sam asks.

“If that means I’m telling you to push off, then yeah.”

“Why?”

“Because, when you’re an adult, and a fully grown one at that, there’s such a place as work. It’s where you go to make money to sustain your miserable life. You’ll learn all about it one day.”

“I work in a DIY and I’m in a band. Next year, I’m applying for the force. I know all about work.”

“Then you’ll understand.”

“Not really,” Sam says, ever the petulant child, which would be proof of this being a wise decision, Gene thinks, if he hadn’t been this way in all the time he’d known him. He swings his legs around to place his feet on the carpet. “I thought this’d been going along pretty well.”

“You’ve been living in a fantasy,” Gene says. ’And so have I,’ he mentally adds. “But much as you need a father figure in your life, I’m not it.”

“I never thought you were.”

“No, of course not. Your quest for the truth has nothing to do with fulfilling childhood dreams.”

“If I were gonna fulfil childhood dreams, I’d hardly do so with you,” Sam practically spits. “This has never been about that.”

“No, it’s all about wondering why I understand you, isn’t it? You know what, Sammy-boy? It’s because you’re easy to understand. Your motivation and drive, your belief in your own superiority. You’re not special in any way. You’re a facsimile of every teenager I’ve ever encountered.”

Sam’s face crumples for a second. He looks like he’s been hit. Gene contemplates apologising profusely, telling Sam he’s scared, that’s all, he’s just scared. He wants something he can’t have and life is unfair.

“I’ll go in the morning,” Sam says after a time staring at his feet. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“So you should be,” Gene replies, but he doesn’t mean it, he wants to beg for Sam’s forgiveness, he wants to wrap him up and take away the pain he’s caused.

Sam lumbers into his bedroom and closes the door. Gene stays up watching the flickering light on his television screen, unable to make sense of the colours or shapes.

*

In 1974 CID had wrapped up a fraud case that had managed to baffle Gene. They had only solved it because Sam had noticed the perpetrator's slip of the tongue. The victim, Linda, hadn’t wanted to press charges against her brother, even though he’d robbed her of her life savings.

“What’s the use, if they don’t wanna be helped?” Gene had lamented. “I don’t get it. Someone betrays you, and you let them get away with it? Out of some misguided sense of family loyalty?”

He’d said those words, but he hadn’t really believed them. He’d known he’d done his fair share of forgiveness in his life. His brother, his wife, Ray, Sam. They’d all made mistakes that Gene had reckoned others would find unpardonable. And he’d remembered. He could never forget. But he hadn’t stopped caring, couldn’t, each of them meant the world to him by different degrees.

Of the two of them, everyone had always said he was uncompromising, but Gene had known Sam was worse. He’d wondered if Sam had it within him to show the mercy he’d been afforded.

“That’s part of what love is, isn’t it?” Sam had said, eyes on the rim of his beer glass. “Being willing to look over fatal flaws in someone’s character. Hell, sometimes, you even love those flaws.”

“You’d let someone trample all over you like that?”

“If I loved them. I mean, sometimes you can’t help it.”

“You don’t think there’s a point where you stop loving that person, that their... I don't know what you'd call them... idiosyncrasies become too much?”

Sam had given half a shrug. “Of course there is, but sometimes, the crime has to be bad enough to force you to realise it.”

“Right. So if our Annie started murdering members of the unsuspecting public dressed as Tufty the squirrel, would that be bad enough?”

“Who’s she killing? If it’s Litton and his crew, then, you know, I might turn a blind eye.”

“Innocent bystanders,” Gene had challenged, willing himself not to smile at Sam’s attempt to lighten the mood.

“Ah, well, she wouldn’t be the woman I think she is, so yeah, I could stop loving her. I wouldn’t stop loving the ideal within a snap of my fingers, though. She’s one of my best friends.”

“More than that,” Gene had stated matter-of-factly.

Sam had given a short shake of his head that Gene hadn’t paid much attention. He’d been too busy thinking that their opinions on the matter coincided, wondering how, then, it always seemed like Sam appeared quick to be cruel. Perhaps it was that Sam found it even harder to love than Gene did.

He thinks of it now, contemplating the conversation from a different angle. Contemplating what Sam’s concept of ‘bad’ might be. In Gene’s recollection, it had never quite aligned with his. Something he had found scandalous had often been met with a supremely disinterested apathy, as if Sam had seen it all before (and he had, Gene realises --- all of those cases Sam had referenced when making his point were examples gleaned from real life experience.) But certain deeds, even those intended for the greater good, had skyrocketed him into a seething mass of foamy-mouthed rage.

He doesn’t know how Sam might react to this, to his impure thoughts and actions. He can’t tell if this would be a mistake he could forgive; should forgive. And not knowing that, not having that check, makes Gene feel untethered.

He had started to rely upon Sam within the first week of meeting him. Hadn’t understood why, couldn’t explain his instinctive attraction. But week by month by year, Sam had become his grounding influence. Even if he’d continually disagreed with Sam’s proclamations, they had forced him to examine himself. He can‘t always trust his judgement. Not entirely, not any more.

*

Gene gets an hour’s sleep when it’s all tallied up. He hears Sam stomping around at six am, and goes to make breakfast. The door slams when he’s buttering the toast, and he goes to investigate. His bedroom is empty, as are the lounge and bathroom. Sam’s gone. He’s left the brown and purple shirts, but Gene notices that the St Christopher’s Medal is nowhere to be seen.

He eats his toast and dresses for work and thinks he’s done the right thing. He had been deluding himself into some form of happiness, had been happily escaping from reality. It had been all too easy to tramp about the city as if it were an amusement park as opposed to his duty to police, all too easy to think of the boy beside him as a different person --- alike in almost all ways, but still not the same. He’s sure that Sam will be fine. And he himself will manage.


	4. how the others must see the faker

1988 arrives quicker than Gene expected it.

He’s working on New Year's Eve, so even though he knows the clocks have heralded in yet another January among the many Januaries of his life, he’s too busy concentrating on closing out a murder-suicide case to celebrate. It’s a messy affair, full of blood and vengeance, and a heartbroken mother who deserves the truth. Outside, the parties are in full swing, and inside, Gene reads through witness reports. He’s turned his life back into being about the work. That’s what he lost, for a long time there. A sense of purpose. That knowledge that he was in the position he is to serve, to fight, to protect. Gene’s not usually into shame, doesn’t see the point of it, life is lived once, but he does feel a measure of shame for this --- that he let himself forget he has a mission.

Of course, the mission has changed. Where once it was about the confession, now it’s about the evidence. Instinct versus forensics. Sam had tried to tell him, too many times to count, and he’d never wanted to listen. There are no such things as Mavericks in this new age of policing --- at least, not for very long. You break the rules, the rules break you. There are so many rules. He has to be careful about the forms of intimidation he uses. A menacing glare is encouraged, following through on the promise is not. More power to detain, less power to convict. No one will take the words of the officer any more, not blindly, not even if the accuser’s the filthiest kind of scum. His Commander tells him he not only has to appear to be by the book, he actually has to be. The ends by no means justify the means. Reminds him of someone.

And he knows the rules well, always did, he can even, objectively, see the point of them. Officers like Ray and Chris need the guidance and he --- well, he supposes he does too. He knew where the line was once, but now it’s thick and fuzzy, and he’s made enough mistakes to accept that no one is perfect, not even an officer of the law. He casts his mind back to Harry Woolf with a twinge. Yes, things have changed for a reason. Doesn’t mean he has to like all the changes, just as he’s never liked the reasons.

He doesn’t drink on the job any more. Gave that up a while back. Not really through choice, but necessity. It’s a sad bastard that drinks alone, and none of the up-and-comers he works with seem to believe in this form of self-medication. All too busy with office politics and sex. His bottles of Glenlivet last him an age these days. Glow amber in his drinks cabinet. But if a case is difficult, hits closer to home than he’d like, at least it’s there for him when he really needs it.

Some days, Gene thinks he should give up the ruse and admit that a mission without passion is no mission at all.

Then he tells himself to stop being such a melodramatic pansy, and feels slightly better.

At least I had forewarning, he thinks. At least I got to adjust over time. Not enough time, but time all the same.

More years have passed since Sam’s death than when they actually knew each other, Gene realises with a saddened jolt. But in these days of policing reform, technological advances, and brainwashing propaganda, Sam makes so much more sense. Gene had always wondered how Sam had initially seemed unable to take personal responsibility for his actions, but it’s obvious. The police are an entity, a force, a service, and as an officer, you’re just one cog in the machine. You do things by the book, it doesn’t matter if everything goes to hell --- you did what you were told, you fulfilled your mission. It wasn’t your fault. But, when things have gone right, it wasn’t your victory either. Doesn’t seem fair that he should finally understand Sam’s perspective now that it’s several years too late.

Concentrating on his work hasn’t stopped Gene from thinking about the eighteen year old incarnation of Sam who swept into his life to ruffle him up and swept out again when he was pushed. And thinking about the quickly transforming face of policing can’t help but continually remind Gene that Sam’s going to start his training soon.

He makes a few calls to past acquaintances. Can’t risk Ray or Chris, who never knew the truth, and wouldn’t believe it if it were standing in front of them singing 'Nessun dorma'. Eventually, he gets hold of Ash McIntosh, a colleague from twenty years before. Ash never knew Sam, though he heard a bit about him --- mostly complaints that he'd likely never remember --- and can be relied upon to keep his curiosity to himself. He’s also one of the higher-ups in the recruitment and training programme for the Greater Manchester Police.

He should leave well enough alone. It’s none of his business. What right has he to know? He asks Ash to keep tabs on Sam’s progress. He doesn’t want him to influence, to get him fast-tracked, because Gene knows he never was. Sam worked his way up the ranks, just as he had when he was young. Gene mostly just wants to know that Sam’s alright. So, Sam finally got him appreciating the benefits of surveillance. He probably wouldn’t have wanted it to happen this way.

He gets a call in mid-February, which is earlier than he thought it would be.

“Your boy,” Ash starts without preamble. “Gone and got himself into a spot of bother.”

“How much of a bother?” Gene asks, because it’s only fair he should get all of the intel before he glides in, guns blazing. Ash’s tone of voice suggests not so much a spot as a whole damn ocean, and this doesn’t wash with what Gene thought he knew.

They’d spoken about this, several times over the years. Sam had always said he’d been a star pupil during his training. Butter wouldn’t melt, apple for the teacher, if not well-liked, then at least tolerated. He was, miraculously, not the snottiest-nosed of all new recruits. Sam never lied to him, Gene knows. He omitted some details. Had to conceal some truths. Couldn’t match Gene anecdote for anecdote. But he never lied.

“He’s in trouble. I think you’re gonna have to come sort it out.”

“Can’t you deal with it? Kindly inform him to get back on the straight and narrow?”

“It’s outta my hands, Gene. Chief Inspector Vertue wants him out. Said the last thing he needs is a rogue. When the head of operational training wants to turn you out on your ear, you’re damn near stuffed and eaten for dinner.”

Gene knows Vertue better than he wishes he did, and also knows a phone call is not going to cut it. Given his stupidity, bravery, or combination of the two, he might actually be able to use his oft-neglected intimidation skills again after all.

He wars with himself for a good twenty seconds before settling on a decision. “Don’t let Vertue kick him to the kerb as yet. I’m coming up.” He says it as if it’s nothing so difficult as a trip in a lift. Nothing momentous, not potentially soul-destroying, a simple journey he could make any minute of any day.

“See you this evening, then? I expect you’ll want a place to kip?”

“It’s the very least you owe me,” Gene affirms.

They say their goodbyes and Gene stares at the receiver as he places it back in its cradle. He could let Sam get kicked out before he’s even begun. This Sam could go and do anything he so wishes; rock star, accountant, lay-about, chef (no, not chef, probably never chef.) His life could follow any path, travel in any direction.

But no other directions feel right for Sam’s levels of passion and pedantry. The only one that does is policing. And that’s the thing --- the police don’t need relics like Gene, who started out wanting to change the world and are struggling to adapt to the changes they wrought. Don’t need an automaton who’ll blindly follow procedure just because he gets paid every fortnight. They need someone who’ll believe in making a difference and will cherish the rules that guide them. Someone who’s got instinct and can develop a keen forensic know-how. They need Sam.

*

The drive is long, so Gene turns the radio on, scowling at the shit music on the airwaves. By the time he gets to Sedgley Park Training Centre, it’s late afternoon, closer to early evening, and he’s simultaneously exhausted and het up. As he closes his car door he notices his hands shaking, and if that isn’t a terrible sign, he doesn’t know what is. From the outside, Sedgley Park looks markedly different from the last time he was here --- from the inside, Sedgley House retains some old-world charm, but is almost entirely a completely new building. It’s got several conference rooms set up, various sitting rooms for study and recreation, offices for select members of staff, all the latest technology.

It’s unsettling to think Sam’s on the grounds somewhere, waiting to hear of his fate. He peers out the corner of his eyes for suspicious signs of movement, half-hoping to be tackled down to the ground.

In the end, being convincing isn’t as difficult as he thought it would be, and he worries that maybe he was making an excuse to come up here. He can’t predict the future, sincerely thought Vertue would be far from a push over, but it only takes a bottle of scotch and a few select words to get Vertue to listen to reason. Granted, those few words include menaces, not to mention a curse or two, but it’s still easier than Gene had been gearing himself up for. His instincts haven’t been firing on all cylinders.

“You think he’s got promise, this lad?” Vertue asks, tipping back in his chair and taking a swig of the glimmering amber fluid in his glass.

“I know he has.”

“How do you know him?”

“Know his parents, don’t I? Smart young couple. Very loving.”

It’s not entirely a lie, Gene reminds himself, taking his own sip of scotch. Ruth had always been more than dedicated to Sam, and Vic had always been smart.

“Rich?”

“No. Just this side of the breadline. Anything Sam’s ever had he worked for. His ethic is terrifying.”

Vertue studies him and Gene’s reminded that interrogation has always been one of his strong suits. He consciously wills himself to keep his hands steady, inch his shoulders back, tip up his head to meet the unfaltering gaze.

“Right then, I’ll give him another chance. I expect you’ll want to give him a pep talk, too?”

“Not me,” Gene says. “If he thinks there’s any chance a family friend’s helped him out, he’ll rebel. Hates people bestowing him with what he considers charity, almost to the point of mania.”

This is also not a lie.

“Ash McIntosh,” Gene continues. “He’s the right level of intimidating and fatherly.”

“He’ll have to be. He’s a right mouthy sort, Sam Tyler. Could win awards for his levels of insolence.”

“What did he do?”

Vertue’s eyes widen comically and he gives a disbelieving open-mouthed smile. “You mean you don’t know?”

“Wouldn’t ask if I did, would I?”

“That’s what I’ve always liked about you, Gene. You’ve always acted first, asked later. Tyler got into a brawl during one of our induction sessions. Seems he’d interrupted to correct the instructor and was summarily ignored. When he began getting tetchy, one of the other trainees tried to silence him and got punched in the nose for their troubles.”

This, Gene feels sure, is not the whole story, but he doesn’t think Vertue knows the rest, and it isn’t like he could ask Sam, so he files it away at the back of his mind. “We did far worse than that in our day,” he says, pointedly.

“And maybe if we hadn’t been allowed, things wouldn’t be in the state they’re in.” Vertue drains his glass. “He only has one more chance. If Tyler errs again, he’s out, I don’t care if you think he’s the next policing Messiah. We don’t want bad press. We don’t, in all honesty, want any press. And if that means whittling a man’s hopes and dreams down to size, we’ll do it, make no mistake.”

*

The first time they’d kissed they’d both been drunk and argumentative. Beer for Gene, wine for Sam, and whisky for the both of them. It had been late 1974 and Gene had spent the day helping sort out the flat (“don’t really know why I haven’t done this before now,” Sam had said, all disjointed and confused as he’d stripped wallpaper, skin shining with sweat.) They’d got into a scrap over the colour scheme, of all things, not the kind of thing Gene would generally bother with, but Sam had always had an incredible knack for riling him up over trivial shit.

Gene had been trying to make a point when he’d pressed Sam against the newly stripped wall, he knew he had, but he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember what that was as he’d pressed a leg between Sam’s thighs and curled his fingers around his wrists. Sam had stared up at him; defiant, challenging, with an edge of another expression Gene hadn’t wanted to fathom. Stared and stared until Gene had found his hands moving, one curving behind Sam’s neck, the other at his hip. And the kiss had been fierce, but not quick, more slow and deliberate, a huff of breath escaping between contact and a mild but unmistakeable shudder travelling through Sam to Gene. It had been enticing warmth and answered prayers, and much as he’d wanted to, Gene hadn’t been able to strangle the noise at the back of his throat that had been humiliatingly similar to a whimper.

It had taken three weeks after that kiss for Gene to be able to look at Sam again, let alone talk to him, and once again it had all been down to an argument --- this time, over giving out assignments (apparently, he was neither efficient, nor effective when it came to case dispersion.) Sam had liked to fight, there was no doubt about that. He’d been adept at confrontation. Occasionally, he’d had poor impulse control and no level of anger management.

But he’d liked to fight Gene, no one else (a couple of punch-ups with Ray notwithstanding --- and Gene was fairly sure, or at least, fairly hoped, that there were different motivations behind those fisticuffs.) He hadn’t gone around the station abusing the staff and having temper tantrums, not on an average day. When he’d lost his head it had always been for a good reason, even if it hadn’t seemed like it at the time.

*

Gene gives up another bottle of scotch to beg Ash to talk to Sam, and he only agrees to do so as long as Gene listens in from an adjacent room. He goes so far as to plant a microphone in the lampshade.

“Why is this necessary?”

“Because I spoke to him yesterday and I want you to hear for yourself what he’s likely to say today.”

“It’s that bad,” Gene states.

Ash responds as if answering a question. “You’ll see.”

Gene ducks into the next room with a thermos flask of coffee and a pack of chocolate digestives as soon as Ash picks up his telephone receiver to call Sam to his office. He thinks about the fact he’s going to be a few feet away from Sam after several months, how it’s making his heart race and how much he wishes it wasn’t. He scarfs down a biscuit and doesn’t taste a thing. Ash talks to him amiably, checking the audio levels.

Eventually the door to Ash’s office opens and Gene imagines Sam standing there, looking sullen. His voice as he says, “I’m here, like you asked,” certainly sounds sullen enough.

“Please, sit down, Sam,” Ash says, and Gene’s impressed by how he manages to convey exactly that tone of fatherly and intimidating Gene specified. “I’ve spoken to Chief Inspector Vertue about yesterday’s little incident. Thanks to a lengthy discussion, he’s willing to give you a second chance.”

“That’s wonderful, but I don’t think I’ll take it,” Sam replies. Gene clutches his headphones closer to his ears, as if doing so might rewind the conversation so he can listen more intently.

Ash sounds resigned as opposed to confused. “Don’t throw your life away in the name of short-sighted pride. You’ve worked too hard for this.”

“I’ve worked hard,” Sam’s voice says, with a note of scorn. “Not necessarily for this.”

“Don’t lie. People don’t fall into the police force. They’re not easily pushed.”

“Clearly, you’ve never met my mother.”

“If you hadn’t been committed to this idea at one time, you never would have made it this far.”

“Are you sure about that? The GMP recruitment drive seems to be taking in all sorts. I never got more than a C for most of my O Levels, and I only just scrape past the height requirement. I’m not the ideal and I’m one of the better ones in the pool.”

Gene rolls his eyes, once again picturing Sam’s expression --- smirking, this time, with the barest hint of malice. He could punch him, so easily, if there were a way of punching through walls without being seen.

“DCI McIntosh, I appreciate you trying to help, but really, I think this is for the best. I don’t fit in here. It’s not for me.”

“Will you make a deal with me?” Ash asks, sounding strained.

“That depends on what it is,” Sam replies, wary and arrogant in equal measure.

“Take the chance. Go to Bruche for the next phase of training. If you still want to leave after that, be my guest. Chances are a two-way street, Sam. The GMP are willing to give you another shot, why don’t you give us one?”

“Why do you think I’m so special?” Sam asks bitterly. “Other people reliably inform me I’m not.”

Gene cracks his fifth chocolate digestive in two, watching the flakes of biscuit drop to the carpet. He mashes them further with the heel of his snakeskin boot.

“If you think I’m about to go on a long-winded lecture about how all young people are special and need nurturing, you have the wrong man. This is not that talk. But I can see the potential in you. You’re strong-willed, you’re intelligent. And you were right, in that lecture yesterday. Derek had got it wrong and should have acceded the point. It’s no excuse for you smacking Carlton in the face, but you were right.”

There’s a pause that seems to go on for minutes, although Gene knows it’s most likely twenty seconds at a stretch.

“Alright,” Sam says, eventually. “I’ll suffer Warrington. But if you can, keep me as far away from Carlton as possible? I won’t be held responsible for my actions if he crosses my path again.”

“You’re going to have to learn to get along with him, but I certainly won’t partner you up.”

“Thanks,” Sam says, short, curt, like he doesn’t mean it. Then he clears his throat. “Really. Thank you. I probably don’t deserve this.”

“Something tells me you do.”

Gene gives it a good three minutes after Sam leaves before he wanders back into Ash’s office. Ash has opened the scotch and is contemplating it meditatively.

“You did more than I expected,” Gene admits, thinking that if he were a different man, he’d attempt to hug him or something equally ludicrous.

“He is worth it?” Ash asks, swirling his glass around.

Gene nods.

*

Of all the hideously bad ideas Gene’s had in his life, this is probably the worst. In fact, the only other time he’s ever done something equally as stupid, it wasn’t his idea. He squints up at the building, shielding his eyes from the glare of the grey sky that should be filled with early morning sunshine. He knocks on the door with apprehension and self-loathing; feelings he’s successfully avoided most of his life, but he’s formed intimate acquaintance with in the last twelve months.

She looks older, but she’s still attractive. Her hair’s shorter, permed. She looks at him with obvious perplexity, touching her thumb and index finger to her forehead, and Gene realises that Sam’s never actually looked like her when it comes to his features, but he mirrors her body language all the time.

“I never thought I’d have to see you again,” Ruth says. Her eyes widen with worry. “This isn’t about Sam, is it?”

“It is, but don’t fret, he’s not in trouble any more.”

“Any more? So, he was?”

“A little, yeah. May I come in?”

Ruth lets Gene in as if in a daze, and he looks around the hallway in curiosity. There are pictures of Sam as soon as you step through the door, on a small console table in front of a mirror. One where he’s a young child wearing a Bobby’s helmet, another where he’s holding a soccer ball, yet another with him in a grey school jumper, that Gene realises uneasily must only be two years old, if that. Sam’s dark eyes peer at him amusedly. Gene misses that expression.

“He said he’d seen you,” Ruth says. “Last year. I didn’t believe him at first, but didn’t know why he’d make it up. Why are you here, DCI Hunt?”

She doesn’t suggest that he can go into the living room and sit down. She doesn’t move very far away from the door. She looks at Gene like she’s ready to spring into attack if the need calls for it.

“I came to tell you your son got in a fight during induction, but they’re giving him a second chance.”

“And why you?”

It’s a good question; one Gene doesn’t have an answer for.

“Why do you think Sam mightn’t be so keen on the police at the minute?”

“Why’s he ever been keen on the police in the first place?” Ruth asks, “Lord knows they’ve never done us any favours,” and her voice has that same note of spite that Sam’s did during his interview with Ash. Then her gaze softens and she says, “I don’t know. One second he’s gung-ho to the point of obsession, the next he’s reluctant and irritable at every mention. It seemed to happen overnight.”

“He couldn’t be responding to your obvious hatred for the force?” Gene suggests, because he might as well blame someone, and Ruth’s an easy target.

“No, because I’ve always told him I’ll support him no matter what, and anyway, the world needs more coppers who’ll care.” Ruth leans back on her heel and gives Gene the once-over, clearly indicating she doesn’t think Gene fits the bill. “Why are you here?” she asks again, more insistent this time. Her voice rises in pitch to near-hysteria. “What claim do you have over my son?”

“Claim?” Gene asks, exasperated. “What do you mean, ‘claim’?”

“Since a young age, you’re all he’s ever been able to talk about. Must’ve been six when he started asking about your picture in the newspaper. Twelve when he’d take his own clippings. The misplaced hero-worship was astonishing. I had to tell him what you’re really like and he didn’t wanna believe me, took a year or more before he’d listen to reason. Did you corrupt him? Did you fill his mind with lies?”

Gene explodes with indignity and confusion. “’Course not. Only time I’ve ever spoken to your son was last year.”

“Then it was your friend, wasn’t it? The day he turned up, out of the blue.”

Gene’s stomach knots at this, because it all starts to make sense. He hears an echo of a previous conversation reverberate through his mind and it takes everything he can muster not to collapse back against the door. The fool. The stupid, fucking idiot.

“I want you to leave Sam alone,” Ruth says, her eyes like steel. “I want you to leave us both alone right this very moment and never come back. We don’t need your protection and we don’t want it.”

There’s an added underlying threat to Ruth’s stare that unsettles him. Something more than anger. Gene gathers his wits about him and makes to leave.

“I never wanted to hurt your family,” he says, unable to stop himself. “I was only ever doing my job.”

“In the real world, intentions don’t count for much,” Ruth retorts, acidly. “Go. Now.”

Gene leaves the flat and doesn’t allow himself to turn around and look back. He starts his car and drives, heading towards the Mancunian Way.


	5. strange fascination, fascinating me

He tells himself it’s entirely accidental that he heard about Sam playing at another club, this time in Warrington. It wasn’t like he’d been searching the information out, asking round to hear about Sam’s whereabouts, because he absolutely hadn’t. He’d purposely avoided asking questions in connection with Sam, after that first week of ensuring that he’d made it safely to Bruche. It was all Ash’s idea that he should know that Sam had formed a new band with other aspiring recruits, and all Ash’s idea that he should know where they were set to perform.

Gene isn’t delusional enough to think that the fact he’s sitting at the back of a club in Warrington wearing dark glasses and a hooded jacket is at all accidental. But he doesn’t, at this moment, have the mental stamina to beat himself up about it again, and there’ll be plenty more time and energy left for that later. For now, all he can think about is the fact he needs this. There’s a moth to a flame metaphor (or is it a simile?) battering against the door in a closet of his mind that he keeps stubbornly refusing to acknowledge. He’s been unable to stop picturing Sam, unable to get rid of his words echoing through his mind, keeps thinking about the two days they spent together in London and how idiotic he was for cutting their time together short. Not idiotic; prudent, wise, making the right choice. Being a dick.

This place is considerably nicer than the club in Manchester. There’s no rising damp on the walls, none of the lights are cracked, and the audience is less scruffy --- not one of them look like they’d cut you up for a tenner. It’s boring, really. Which explains the change of sound. Where once Sam was playing lead for a band that veered to the side of heavy rock, this rag-tag band of potential policemen are serenading the audience with power ballads and love songs. It’s a good thing Gene hasn’t eaten yet, or he’d surely be providing his own textured and technicolour accompaniment.

They’re good, though. Great, even. Sam’s finally found other musicians who match his ability. They may not be making waves in originality, and the audience doesn’t look compelled to get up and dance, but there are melodies and harmonies, and one or two riffs that a non-musician like Gene has the wherewithal to be impressed by. Sam’s not the stand-out best. He’s still the best, no question on that --- he’s been given solos for a reason --- but he’s not so far ahead of the others that it’s wrong they should be playing together.

This doesn’t make him look any happier to be on stage. If Gene didn’t know any better, he’d swear Sam just found out he’s gonna be made official eunuch of all of Lancashire. Sam frowns at the ground, looking like he hopes it’ll swallow him whole. And it’s only through his hand movements, the glide of his fingers over the frets, that it’s obvious he gains any enjoyment from the ritual whatsoever. While the rest of him is rigid, fixed in a slouch that makes him look like a particularly uncoordinated sloth, his fingers move slow and easy with the music. He’s better than he was last time, or perhaps the songs are less challenging; either way, the playing aspect seems to come naturally. Gene would go so far as to say it’s a joy watching him play --- he only wished Sam looked like it was a joy for him too. It does seem a little strange that the arrogance and confidence he displays in all things should be missing when it counts the most.

Gene spends several minutes cataloguing Sam’s features, even though he has no troubles recalling them both at will and against it, any day of the week. He’s here, now, he may as well savour the moment. It’s a luxury to be able to take in the contrasts of his face; the softness in the curve and bow of his lips, the sharpness of his cheekbones. He’s all contradictions, it appears. A man made to confuse and perplex. Sounds about right. There’s a kind of beauty to his features that Gene’s never quite managed to grasp --- has been reticent to refer to as ‘beauty’. If you only looked at the parts that make him whole, you could never anticipate the effect the sum of them has. Looking at Sam stirs the side of Gene usually kept under lock and key. The one that appreciates aesthetics, and could even tell you why in terms that are closer to poetic than they are to crude. And since looking is the only option open to him, he thinks he’ll allow that side to flourish for a while.

He never quite gets near to ‘shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?’ He may be a lot of things, as this Sam seems so fond of saying, but a zealous Shakespeare nut isn’t one of them.

The upshot of Sam being a miserable git is that he doesn’t come close to noticing Gene. The band plays its entire set and Sam looks up all of four times --- never in Gene’s direction. There won’t be a confrontation this time, which Gene convinces himself he’s happy about. It’s best this way. The itch to draw attention to himself is annoying, but it’s thankfully not all-consuming. The band’s off the stage after one encore, and there hasn’t been a scene.

When he’s had another drink and confirmed that Sam really isn’t coming back out, he goes outside for a stroll along the river Mersey. It’s still nippy, but it’s getting warmer, and he’s missed this momentary commune with nature.

Sam and Gene had got into a routine, midway through 1975, of walking alongside the canal together of a Friday night. After the stress of a long and tiresome slog it was relaxing. Sam called it his ‘debriefing period’ --- a time to consider and evaluate cases they had engaged with throughout the week --- but Gene knew that wasn’t the whole story. It was, in part, Sam’s time to try to wrap Gene around his little finger. It was always during these moments that Sam inevitably got his way in regards to some investigation or another. Either he would end up with the go-ahead for a radio bit, or Gene would finally deign to listen to his ridiculous theories, or Gene’d find himself conceding a point he’d insisted to himself he’d never, in a million years, concede.

Everyone had known they went for this walk. It became a running joke, especially on the parts of Vince and Clive, who had a bet placed on who’d end up in the canal first (the odds of which were far too even for Gene’s liking.) What they hadn’t known was that it usually ended in Sam and Gene going to back to Sam’s flat until at least the early hours of the morning, if not the whole night.

It had taken a long time for Gene to be even halfway comfortable with what they did together, and he was never about to sing it from the rooftops, but it had always felt right --- a natural extension of their friendship. Kissing Sam had run the gamut of sensations, from relaxing --- as if there were no troubles in the world, nothing but he and Sam and eternity --- to intoxicating --- as if he could never have enough of Sam, no matter what he did. And, more often than not, they hadn’t only kissed. Not that there ever really was an ‘only’ where Sam was concerned.

Remembering their walks together almost dulls the bitter regret he usually associates with the water that took Sam away from him. It does little to persuade him that self-reproach and reprimand are far from necessary. In fact, far as Gene can make out, they’re downright vital.

*

There are hanging baskets framing the doorway, and daisies by the path. A creeper climbs up the side of the cottage, newly in bloom. It’s picturesque. But behind the beauty there’s a strong-standing structure that’s stood the tests and ravages of time. Really, the analogy is so blatant, Gene thinks there should be a law against it, though he doesn’t know how he’d enforce it beyond a few barbed comments.

He’s debated within himself time and time again as to whether this is a good idea. But ‘good’ has no meaning to him now, and he’s never been one much for ‘ideas’; it’s knowledge or it’s nothing, far as he’s concerned. It isn’t so much that one side won the debate and he’s following through. It’s more that he’s been unable to actually think lately, and instinct has taken charge. So he’s here at the house, like he’s been invited almost every year, but always refused until now. He’s knocking at the blue wooden door and steeling himself for seeing her again.

The last time was Sam’s funeral. She’d cried, and that had been painful. Her look towards him had been worse. The pity and confusion, but mostly the compassion. They’d never spoken about it, but she’d known --- known something, at least, if not the whole of it.

The door opens. “Gene,” she says, warmly; surprised, but happy about it. She holds out her hands, clasps his delicately.

“Annie,” he says, quietly, hearing the weariness in his own voice.

Her name sticks in his throat, even after all these years. She would always be ‘Cartwright’ to him at heart; at a level of professional distance that was bridged only by Sam. It isn’t because he doesn’t like and respect her --- quite the opposite --- it had always been because he had. She’d been one of his very best, but she’d only challenge him if he were in a place beyond her, she’d not want the enmity if they were close. Soon as they’d drifted towards anything resembling friendship, she’d lost her hard edge, made allowances, and he hadn’t wanted that. At the time he’d wondered why the same couldn’t be said for Sam --- how he’d still raged, and fought, and questioned, even when they’d been skin-tight. Wondered, but never asked beyond a, ‘why are you such a pain in my glorious backside?’

“Come in,” Annie says, opening the door wider and stepping to the side. Gene walks through the space, into an airy and light front room. “What brings you here? Don’t think you could say you were passing through.”

“You’ve always asked me,” he says, “you gonna say it was just for show?”

“No, but a little warning might’ve been nice,” Annie retorts, and there’s fire in her eyes again, a shared smile that’s not quite mockery, but teetering close. “Tea?”

Once they’re sitting together on the sofa, and Gene’s had two mouthfuls of English Breakfast, he swirls his cup around and stares at the play of light on the drink’s surface. He’s not used to hesitation, positively detests it, but it’s difficult to get the words out now that he has to. He’s had this conversation three times already, anticipating what he thinks would be Annie’s responses based on what he knew of her in the past. It’s not the same.

“What would you say if I told you I’d seen Sam?”

“Oh, Gene,” she says, and, if it weren’t so tragic, it’d be amusing; that had been his first imagined response in every scenario. “When you say seen...?” There’s a thread of note and anticipation in her voice that about guts him. Like she wants this to be real, like she thinks he’s about to fling open the door and reveal Sam Tyler --- Time Traveller Extraordinaire. Like Sam didn’t die and Gene wasn’t an idiot, and they could all play happy families, forever.

“I mean it.” Gene pauses, clenches his hand tighter as Annie’s eyes widen. “But not the Sam you’re thinking of.”

“Oh,” Annie says, her tone completely different. “Gene.”

Gene hadn’t known tone of voice could so accurately betray disappointment.

“I’d say, ‘make sure it doesn’t happen again’, I expect,” Annie continues. She sets her teacup on the end table and takes Gene’s hands in hers again. He has to pull away. He cannot take that contact, he absolutely can’t.

“It’s a tad too late for that.”

“How did it happen?”

“Deliberately.”

“Why?”

“Sam asked, before he died. Asked me to keep himself on the straight and narrow. He didn’t want a repeat performance of his life.”

“I see,” Annie says tightly. She gazes at Gene again, probing this time. “You haven’t only seen him, have you?”

“No.”

“No. You wouldn’t be here if it was that simple. So what’s he like?”

The word ‘gorgeous’ springs to mind and Gene quickly quashes it.

“He’s obnoxious and arrogant, an insufferable know-it-all, full of bitterness. And he’s funny, and joyous, and bright.”

“He’s Sam.”

Gene lets out a sigh and stares at the carpet. “Yeah.”

Annie studies him, he can see it in his peripheral vision. “And you still love him.”

Gene stares harder, rubs a hand through his hair.

Annie gives an exasperated chuckle. “You’re still too much of a manly man to admit that you love him.”

Gene looks up at this. “I’m not. Don’t make this black and white. It was never like that.”

“It definitely was!” Annie exclaims.

“No, I don’t mean that. You’re right there, fair enough. I just mean --- don’t think he never knew, because he did. That’s why he asked me to help him in the first place. But if we call this the same thing... if we act like it is, well... it’s not, alright?”

“Okay,” Annie says. Her lips soften. “Okay, I understand.”

“You don’t.”

Annie gives a sad smile. “You’d be surprised by how much I do.”

Gene looks at her sharply, but there’s nothing in her features that suggests soul-crushing unrequited love. At the beginning she and Sam had had romance, so could she have been suffering all this time? Suffering even worse, because she’d had to watch someone else with him. Though there’d not been public displays of affection, Annie’s adamance made it clear she’d been more than aware of the extent to his and Sam’s relationship.

“Friendship’s important too, Gene.” Annie pours another cup of tea. “What’re you gonna do?”

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be here asking your advice.”

“Right. Should I actually be asking how far it’s gone, then?”

Gene tells her about the first meeting and the days in London. He tells her about Sedgley Park and his visit to Ruth. He tells Annie about four nights ago, when he went to see Sam play in Warrington. She listens, occasionally interjects to ask a question, but if she’s judging him, she isn’t letting it show, and speaking about it, talking it through, is more therapeutic than he’d like to admit.

“The thing is, it’s a compulsion. I never really understood my brother’s addiction until now. Even though I know it isn’t rational, even though I know it isn’t right, I can’t help it. I have to see him. I want to be with him.”

“Do you really think it’s wrong?”

Gene frowns. He hadn’t been anticipating that question. “Don’t you?”

“It’s not my place to say.”

“I’m asking. I need you to tell me.”

“I don’t think it can be boiled down to wrong or right. Whose definition are we gonna use? There are no rules laid down for this kind of thing, are there? ‘If your past love were to be somehow replicated, and you made the mistake of meeting his clone, this is how you should behave.’ But if you really don’t want it to go any further, you should probably go somewhere far away.”

’He’s not a clone,’ Gene wants to say. 'He’s not a facsimile.'

Instead he says, “I’ve been hiding among the southern nancies for years already.”

“Somewhere even further than that.”

“Remove myself from temptation.”

“Yeah.”

“Hmm. Nice idea, but it wouldn’t stop the gnawing in my stomach, would it? Best case scenario, I’d be feeling like shit warmed up on a beach sipping cocktails, as opposed to shit warmed up in an office making the small bit of difference I can in the world.”

“I don’t think there’s a remedy for that. Unless you know the secret to Sam’s time travel and can magically make all of this disappear.”

“Sam didn’t even know the secret to his own bastard time travel, how’d’you expect me to?”

“I don’t. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

“I’d say it’s appreciated, but it’s not.”

“Never were one to mince words, were you?”

“No, and neither were you. You’re saying run away. Gene Hunt doesn’t run.”

“Then what do you do? You let your addiction consume you? You let it consume him? Because he’s already affected, Gene. You can’t be so lackwitted that you can’t see he was rebelling against you at Sedgley Park. He was probably hoping you’d turn up. He’s invested. Not the same as you, maybe, but he is. And if you don’t want that, if you really don’t, you should leave.”

Gene purses his lips together, twines his fingers. “I do,” he says. “That’s the problem, Annie. I do.”

Annie shrugs a shoulder. “I suppose all I can say is that you’ve got to follow your heart.”

“That’s your advice? Follow your heart? What kind of gittish, precious, bile-inducing twaddle is that?”

“The only kind I’m qualified to give. I sincerely hope you didn’t come here looking for permission, Gene. If you ever thought I was gonna say it’ll all be alright, because you’re in love and that’s the purest and most wonderful power in all the world, you’re sadly mistaken. I don’t disapprove, I’m not about to cast you from my house, telling you you’re amoral and full of sin, but I don’t approve either, and you know the reasons why. It’s your decision and yours alone.”

Gene finds he’s pleased she’s gone beyond being afraid of him, gone beyond seeing friendship as a barrier to wanting to tell him what she thinks. This realisation surprises him and he grimaces at her. “Fat lot of good you are, Annie Cartwright. I expect you’ll be kicking me out on my rear next.”

“It’s not my fault no one ever gave me the keys to life, love, and the universe.” Annie stands, taking the tea tray and nodding her head towards the kitchen. He joins her as she places the cups and teapot in the sink. “Stay for lunch. I’ve fresh baked bread, cold meats and cheese. I’ll feed you up before you go on your way.”

“When did you become so bossy?”

“When I became Superintendent. It’s in the job description, you know.”

“You think they’d ever let me within a two mile radius of the job and person specs?”

“There, now, I’ve heard you’ve quite mended your ways,” Annie mocks. It’s obvious the previous conversation has been dismissed. All that needed to be said was, and Gene decides to follow Annie’s example, because it’s easiest. If he still has queries, if he still seeks opinion, it’s clear it’s best for him to wait. He could ask her again in the future, he thinks. She’s not cut him off entirely. For now, though, the discussion’s finished, and Gene can understand why --- it’s all a little bit too much like hard work.

“There was never anything to be fixed,” he replies, “I’m in perfect working order.”

“Yes,” Annie says. “Of course you are.”

*

He decides, in the end, that Annie might just be right, which rankles, but is oddly soothing at the same time. He starts to make plans, checking how much cash he has to spend. It’s more than he initially would have thought. It’s shockingly simple to imagine packing up his life and moving. He thinks he’ll go to Spain. Maybe Mexico. Or perhaps Italy. Somewhere that’s scenic, full of people who don’t speak English, and therefore can’t interrogate or bore him to death. If he runs out of money, he can get a job as a bounty hunter. Or not. Probably not. Will as likely end up working in a shop or kiosk or some shit, helping unfortunate tourists.

It’s not as appealing as it should be.

Before he goes, he’ll see Sam for one last time. Watch him and think about the things that could have been, should never have been, the things that were. He hasn’t even made his final decision on his destination or bought his ticket when he hears about Sam’s band playing again. He’s got someone to buy his place, though, and he’s staying in a motel. He’s collected his money up into one tidy account. He thinks that’s reason enough to make this the last. Who knows, he may never get another opportunity.

It should be difficult to pack up his supposed home of seven years and move. It should feel bittersweet. He should want to cling to old memories, see visions of the years gone by, have the sense that he has nowhere to belong. But he has none of that. It’s not heart-rending in the slightest. He won’t miss it. It was a place to kip and that was it. The only thing he does think about is the suitcase of clothes he left in the wardrobe. They’ll be discarded one way or another. In a bin, or in a secondhand shop, it’s all one and the same.

The band plays, Sam looks miserable, and Gene’s heart --- old, cracked and encrusted in cholesterol --- thumps too slowly and then too quickly, always out of time with the drummer’s beat. It’s not entirely an experience he thinks he’ll want to savour. It’s all he’s got.

It’s self-sabotage, has to be, that makes him go outside between the sets. Well, that, and the desperate need for a cig. He collides with something small and solid as he turns towards yelling down the end of the street, and he realises in a split second that it’s Sam, holding onto his arms and staring up at him in shock.

“You,” Sam says acidly, “what a lucky coincidence, I’ve been wanting to have a word with you. I tried, but you’d pissed off, no forwarding address. Not very considerate, that.”

“Can’t talk now,” Gene replies. “I’ve places to be, things to do.” He pulls away and begins to walk off --- closer to a gallop, really --- but his legs can’t take him quickly or far enough, because Sam catches up and drags him back. Pushes him against the stone wall of the club.

Sam’s face is damn near manic as he speaks. “Oi, you fucker. Don’t be such a cowardly prick. Stand still and face me like a man.”

“What a charming reintroduction. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Yeah. I speak to her n’all. Had a fascinating conversation last week. D’you remember what I said I was gonna do to you, Gene, if you ever went near her?”

“It made me laugh for about an hour after, so yeah, I remember. Something about beating me within an inch of my life? Which inch would you like to start with?” Gene points to his right fist. “This inch here’s accommodating.”

“God, you’re not real, are you? You’re fucking ridiculous.”

The irony of Sam questioning his realness isn’t lost on Gene. He can feel hysterical laughter bubbling up, threatening to escape. His life is a farce, there’s nothing else to say about it.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?” Sam asks, convincingly menacing like he was before. Of everything that’s not right, that’s at the top of the list. Sam shouldn’t be intimidating, yet he is.

“I’m trying, but you won’t let me.”

“No. You made sure I wasn’t kicked out of training. You’re here now. You’ve been keeping tabs. Mum said.”

“Mummy said this, Mummy said that, ever think you have an unnatural fixation, Tyler?”

“Do you?”

“There’s nothing unnatural about me. I’m a hundred percent human.”

“Base instincts and all, hey?”

“Did she tell you what she said to me?” Gene asks, because there’s something like embarrassment in Sam’s flickering glances and he’s curious how honest he’ll be. This Sam is not as trustworthy as the one he knew before, he’s lied through more than omission.

“She shouted as much, yeah.”

Gene studies Sam’s expressions, as flitting and intense as he’s ever seen them. “It’s a tad disturbing, finding out you’ve a stalker.”

“I know from personal experience.” Sam glares, now, angular features heightened by his attitude; all sharp lines and hard corners.

“I’m not stalking you.”

“No. You’re merely following and watching me without my consent. Not stalking at all.”

Gene gets defensive. He has no choice. Sam won’t let him run. “It’s not dodgy.”

“It’s totally dodgy.”

“And your newspaper clippings weren’t?”

“It’s not like I’d rub one off gazing at the dot matrix that made up your face. There was nothing sexual about it.”

“I should bloody well hope not,” Gene says, distaste and unwanted anticipation making his mouth go dry.

“Not then, at any rate,” Sam continues, looking at Gene with that frank interrogation that has always been unsettling. He hesitates, licks his lower lip. Focusses on Gene’s. “There is now.”

Gene takes a deep breath and expels it through his nose, feeling like a bull about to charge. “Don’t say things like that.”

“It’s true.”

“Really? How true?”

Alarm bells ring, but Gene’s going to get this over with. He presses himself against Sam, feels the heat in his sinewy muscle through the cotton of their shirts. One of his legs is between Sam’s, one of his hands has come to rest at his waist. He’s looking into his eyes and calculating how long it will take. He knows it’s all a bluff, just as it was at his house. Sam will peel himself away, shudder, tell him he’s a sick bastard with a deranged mind and delusions of grandeur. He’ll punch him maybe once or twice, laugh as Gene coughs up blood, feeling he could bleed out and it’d make no difference to him, really, in the long run. He holds on and waits.

And then Sam kisses him.


	6. just gonna have to be a different man

Gene stops the kiss two seconds too late. Late enough that he’ll never be able to forget the warm brush of Sam’s lips against his, the press of his body, the fingers that tangled into his hair. Late enough that he doesn’t give a thought to the sound of his sunglasses clattering onto the bitumen. Late enough that he can taste spearmint and beer. A single kiss shouldn’t feel simultaneously like the beginning and end of the world, but it does.

He pushes Sam away, not with a harsh shove, but with a gentle press, and realises he should have shoved when all he wants to do is draw Sam back upon looking at his confused, rejected expression. Sam looks so hurt, and Gene’s body thrums with the need to fix that.

“Fuck,” Gene exhales, winding a hand behind Sam’s head and pulling him close.

He can’t time this kiss in seconds. He doesn’t try after Sam licks over his teeth, sliding his tongue into his mouth. He hasn’t kissed anyone in years --- the people he’s bedded now and again not close enough for that kind of intimacy --- and he thinks he may have forgotten how, because this is nothing like he remembers. He’d expected this to feel familiar, like a million other kisses, but it doesn’t.

Sam makes a desperate sound against his mouth, cranes forward as if he wants more. Gene reflects that few red blooded men --- hell, few red blooded women --- would be able to turn this down. Morality doesn’t seem to have any standing against the needs and wants of his body. He leans back against the wall Sam had dragged him against, not because his knees are weak, but because it’s easier to match Sam’s height. He licks Sam’s lower lip, then presses a kiss against the corner of his lips, then dives in again for something deeper, longer.

Sam makes an entirely different noise, grabs Gene’s hands and begins to haul him off the wall, pull him down the road.

“What’re you doing?”

“I’m taking you back to mine. It’s not far from here.”

“The band.”

“Can get by without me. They’ve had to before.”

“Don’t you share?”

Sam laughs. “No one wanted to. Notorious for violence, me. Completely unsavoury.”

Gene thinks he should be resisting, in fact, he’s sure of it, but he doesn’t resist. He allows Sam to propel, push and guide him down two streets. They don’t talk. Occasionally, Sam drags him into another kiss. At one point, Gene stumbles, uncoordinated like he’s had a few dozen too many. He watches as Sam clambers up the steps to a set of flats, eyes intent on the curve of his arse in sadly baggy jeans. There’s a sliver of skin showing above his waistband and below his ridden up shirt that Gene wants to lick.

The short glimpse Gene gets of the flat reminds him of the early days of Sam’s flat in Manchester. There are books strewn on the floor, cans of open soft drink on the table, three dirty plates in places plates should never be, but before Gene has time to chastise Sam, his knees are against the edge of the bed and he’s falling back. Sam straddles his hips, grinding a couple times, pulls at his collar and flicks his top button undone. He nuzzles into the exposed stretch of Gene’s neck, and Gene can’t help but give an embarrassingly long moan at that.

“I know you’ve wanted this as long as I have,” Sam murmurs against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. “That night at the club. I wasn’t imagining things.”

Longer, Gene thinks. So much longer than that.

Gene thinks about sliding his hands up under Sam’s shirt, brushing his fingers against smooth, tempting skin, but he hesitates because --- because there’s a line --- and it may be fuzzy, and it may sometimes seem to shift, but it’s still there.

Sam rocks his hips again, moves to unbutton more of Gene’s shirt, but Gene takes hold of his wrists. He doesn’t squeeze tight, but he can feel a pulse; he can’t tell if it’s his own or Sam’s.

“No,” he says, with as much authority as he can muster.

“Don’t try to tell me you’re no longer in the mood. I can feel you,” Sam says. He swivels his hips again as if to prove the point.

“I’m no longer in the mood.”

“Would you like me to call you Daddy?” Sam teases.

Gene flings Sam off and wrenches himself away. He goes to stand by the door, actively stops himself from shuddering. “Don’t,” he says. “Don’t say that.”

Sam sidles up him, traces of humour now dispersed amongst confusion. “I’m making fun of your ridiculousness over the age difference, that’s all. The sulking and the angst because I was born in a different decade.”

Gene squeezes his eyes tight, then opens them again, almost wishing he could cut Sam with a glare. “You think my problem’s the age difference? Of course you do. What other reason could there be?”

Sam’s expression changes over a series of seconds, ranging from confusion to annoyance to horror.

“Oh God,” Sam says. “You’re not my biological father, are you? I mean, that would explain ---”

“Don’t be such a dick,” Gene snarls. He gives Sam the once over. In his confusion and momentary dismay, he looks more vulnerable than ever. “I can’t believe I was gonna do this.”

“You mean do me?” Sam retorts, curling his lip up.

“Yeah, if you’re a juvenile twat... oh, wait... ”

Gene places his hand on the door handle. Sam looks torn between wanting to catapult him out the door and entangle him in another embrace.

“Have a nice life, Sam. I won’t be bothering you any more.”

“Do you mean it this time or will there be a repeat performance in a few months? I’d like to know, so as I can make holiday plans, you know how it goes.”

“I mean it. We’re through. Whatever it is you think this is, it’s finished.”

Gene yanks open the door and storms out. He thinks he hears Sam call after him, but he’ll not turn around.

Guilt sets in five strides down the road, but he doesn’t stop. He’s keenly aware that to Sam it looks like he overreacted to a poorly timed joke, that now he’s been left in the lurch over a triviality. That’s not strictly fair. But Gene had no choice. He’s never been one for mixed signals before. Always made his decision and followed through. He came too close there, far too close to losing his head, and it’s Sam who’d suffer the consequences, not him. He thinks about Annie’s words. Do you let it consume him? He’s already affected. Fuck. And Sam can’t know, Gene can’t explain, that while, yeah, the fact he’s little more than a kid is a bastard big contributing factor as to why he’s reticent to allow this to go any further, that’s not the whole of it. How can he say, ’I’m still in love with a version of you, I don’t mean that metaphorically, and this wouldn’t be fair on any of us’?

Fairness, Gene muses, is a loaded concept. He’s not sure he’s ever mastered it.

Mexico, he decides in a snap. He’ll make arrangements for Mexico. It’d always sounded attractive in Sam’s stories. Harder to hop back into the country on a whim that way, and since, at this current moment, he’s itching to go back and talk to Sam --- only talk; not lick, and nip, and bite, and kiss the whole of him, and take and give and worship --- he’ll have to be far away.

*

It’s shockingly easy to quit his job. They hold a party for him and hand him a watch, and he gives a speech he doesn’t remember, because he couldn’t have cared less about the people he was delivering it to. He gets a card from Chris two days later, waiting for him in his emptied office, on the boxes of relics he’d half a mind to chuck. The message is long, but it boils down to, ‘you were the best Guv I ever had’. It makes Gene want to crush it into a ball, but he pockets it instead.

No more mission. No more catching crims. The revelation shouldn’t make him shrug. The realisation that he’s the worst kind of hypocrite stings only so long as he’ll let it.

He’s off to collect his airfare when he opens the door to his motel room to find Sam pacing the courtyard. Seeing him sends his heart pounding instantly, and his mind whirling into overdrive.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Gene bellows. If he’d had any sense, he’d have kept quiet, gone back inside, and watched Sam out his window, but he can’t control all his reflexes all the time, and it surges out of him without a second thought. “What are you doing here?”

Sam looks altogether nervous, brash, and insistent. “I’d like to claim it’s a coincidence, but that would be a lie. I’m fine-tuning my detective skills. You have to admit, I’m pretty good.”

Gene admits to himself that it’s true. That Sam found him here is impressive. Terror-making, heart-breaking, annoying-to-the-nth-degree, but impressive.

“You should be at training.”

“I went to see my Doctor about the terrible stomach bug I’ve got --- feels like I’ve a thousand creepy crawlies dancing a jig in there. He gave me a certificate for three days.”

Gene lets out a sigh. “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Interesting metaphor.”

“It’s a simile.”

“Let me in.”

“No.”

“I’ll scream.”

“Then scream. I said I wouldn’t bother you again, why are you bothering me?”

Sam steps forward, frowning slightly. His lips are curved in a pout. “I think I deserve answers.”

“I don’t have any. I’d’ve thought I made that abundantly clear.”

“No. Let me in.”

Gene half-considers stepping back into his room and slamming the door in Sam’s face, but there’s no doubt in his mind that Sam would scream, the authorities would be called, and hell would reign on earth. He allows Sam into his room and watches as Sam flops onto the bed, lazily spreading out his arms. Gene leans against the doorjamb, close to a point of escape.

“You have to stop doing this, Sam. It’s not right.”

“I really like the fact you have the audacity to be proclaiming right from wrong,” Sam says. He changes tone. “You want me, why won’t you have me? Especially if it’s not because I turn nineteen in three weeks.”

Gene winces. “It’s also because you’re touched in the head.”

“I don’t think of you as a father figure,” Sam says. “I promise. I was being an idiot. I’d a little too much to drink --- I always do when I have to perform.”

“I don’t mean your half-arsed attempt at humour. That’s the least of it. Look at yourself. Think about what brought you here today. That sort of obsession’s far from healthy.”

“So you’re touched in the head too?”

“I’m not obsessed.”

Sam springs from the bed. “You damned well are. And you appear to be a masochist. Of the two of us, I’d say you’re considerably more screwed up.”

Gene considers this, but, for once, doesn’t want to relent. He may be more of a headcase, but he at least has reason to be. Why is it that Sam’s three quarters cracked even when, by rights, he should be well-adjusted? After a time --- over a year, admittedly, but the point still stands --- Sam had settled into what could almost be called normalcy. The discrepancies between his and Gene’s sanity had all been based on differing experiences and beliefs, and made much more sense once the truth was known. Nothing too outlandish, either, no matter Gene’s claims on the subject. Gene had never thought he was irrevocably damaged.

“I promise I won’t say anything stupid this time,” Sam says, now, wheedling into Gene’s personal space. “I won’t speak at all, if you don’t want.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“I don’t have to be me. You could pretend I’m whoever it is I remind you of.”

Impossible, Gene thinks. And painful.

He takes Sam by the shoulders and sits him back on the bed. “Jesus, Sam, are you really so greedy for affection?”

“It’s not greedy, it’s starved,” Sam says absently.

“No, in your case, I think it’s greedy.”

Gene regrets that he doesn’t keep a flask on him, then, as he pats down his clothes and finds little but a lighter and his three remaining cigarettes. He could do with a drink, badly. He proffers Sam a cigarette, but it’s rejected.

“You know you’re not hideous, don’t you? Someone with a looser tongue might even go so far as to say you’re drop dead gorgeous. You could have man, woman, or beast mewling for your attentions.”

“That’s all well and good, but this isn’t about sex.”

“If that’s the case, why’d’you keep trying to seduce me?”

“Okay, it’s a little bit about sex. But that’s not all of it.”

“Good. Because I prefer you more as a twonk than a twink.”

Sam’s smile is wide, warm, and genuine. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who could say that with a straight face. Not just straight, but grumpy. It’s a wonder to behold.”

“You’re infatuated with me,” Gene says. “Which, I’m not going to deny, is flattering. But I can’t give you what you want. I won’t.”

“Why not?” Sam asks. It isn’t a whine. He doesn’t look like he’s being manipulative, and Gene’s seen that enough times to be reasonably sure. He’s simply confused. “I think it’s the not knowing that’s making this all so difficult for me to grasp.”

“You’re right in that you remind me of someone,” Gene says slowly. “And I --- I was constantly surprised by how well we fit together, when most of the time, we wouldn’t see eye-to-eye. He brought out the best in me, provoked the worst in me, and sometimes we were happy.”

“You loved him,” Sam says.

“Why does everybody keep telling me that?” Gene snaps. “I know my own heart.” He puffs on his cigarette, allows the smoke to billow into the air. “Yes, I loved him. I actually thought we’d be together until the day I died, which, given his propensity for being a prick who didn’t listen to reason, could be any day of the week. But, naturally, the bastard had to go and get himself killed first and I’ve never been able to forgive him.”

“Do I look like him?”

“Yeah, you do.”

Sam studies Gene. “For some reason, I feel like there’s more.”

“That’s all you’re getting. So. Now you can go on your merry way.”

Sam shakes his head, places his hand high on Gene’s leg. “I disagree. I think that now I know the truth there’s no reason we can’t act out our desires. We each know why the other’s invested. It’d help me get over you. It might help you get over him.”

“I know that young men are permanently horned up, but Jesus, give it a rest.”

“No, really. What’s stopping you?”

“I’m a man of honour.”

“Bullshit.”

Gene grits his teeth. “I am.”

Sam persists. “The way I see it, we’d both be benefitting, and what more could anyone want?”

Gene stands, crosses the small space back to the door. “Stop throwing yourself at me. You’ll regret it, believe me. I’m only human.”

“I’m sort of counting on that.”

Gene glares. It’s all he can do other than leave all his worldly possessions behind and make a noble and valiant escape. “Listen, if this isn’t about sex, let’s make a deal. I’ll be your friend long as you stop being Marilyn Chambers.”

“Easy to accomplish, since I’ve no idea who she is,” Sam says blithely. “What kind of friend are you gonna be from overseas?”

“A distant one. Which is the best way. But I’ll talk if you need it, and I’ll listen even better.”

Sam curls his legs under himself, twines his fingers. “Okay. Can we start now?”

*

They go to a café. It’s best to be somewhere there’s no bed that Sam can loll on, and Gene’s stomach begins to growl merely at the suggestion of food. They sit across from one another and they talk. Mostly, Sam babbles and Gene lets him pour his heart out. There's a lot Gene can give advice on, and a lot for which there's nothing to say. Sam’s worries and fears are familiar. He’s got more than halfway through training, but he’s still not sure he wants to be a cop, because it sounds like it requires unlimited reserves of patience and dedication that he doesn’t think he has.

“And the patience and dedication you showed in finding me twice mean nothing?” Gene asks, because he’s still a bit terrified Sam managed it.

“I wanted to find you. I was sure it could be done. I don’t feel the same way about policing. It’s a hard slog for little reward.”

“Then don’t become a cop,” Gene says. “In fact, don’t try to do anything other than fuck over other people and big note yourself, because few jobs offer any reward at all. And rewards always come at a price.”

“Is it really naive to expect happiness from life?”

“It is if you’re not willing to work for it.”

“Oh. Right. No one ever tells you these things when you’re growing up. It’s always ‘be the very best you can be and everything will be wonderful. Here, Sam, have a gold star’.”

Gene snorts into his coffee. “Real life’s not always horrible. For me, the reward was knowing that someone was out there doing their best, even if they didn’t always succeed.”

“I read about whispers of corruption directly involving you. Your reward was also a tidy sum of banknotes and the occasional assisted collar.”

“No, Sam. That was the price.” Gene takes a swig of coffee, bitter and sweet on his tongue. “And I gave that up earlier than the press would’ve had you believe.”

“What kept you going? Belief and hope, was that it?”

Gene thinks about it. It's a fair question. It's not something he's ever wondered about until recently. He'd always simply gone on with the job. And he'd had his ups, and his downs, but he'd never faltered so far he'd lost his step forward.

“There’s no such thing as ‘it’ in that case. Hope is a strong thing. Belief even stronger. Without them, very little would be accomplished.”

“But you’ve quit now.”

“Do you know every little last detail about my life, or what?”

Sam gives a sly grin. “I know that. You’ve packed it in.”

Gene fiddles with his slice of fruit cake, trying to determine if he could fit it all in his mouth in one go. It’d be nice to have an excuse not to answer any more difficult questions. He shouldn’t have made the offer.

“I packed it in because I’ve lost the will, and soon I’ll lose the way. It’s time. But you’re young and full of ridiculous amounts of verve and vim. You could make a real difference.”

“You think I should be a cop.”

“I think you’ve already proved you’d be one of the best. But you do have to want it. You have to have some faith. Even if it’s simply in thinking that there are people who need protecting, that there are people who deserve to be helped.”

“I do think that already.”

“Do it for them. Not because you wanna catch the most scum, or because you think you can change the world with a flick of your fairy wrist.”

“Oi!”

Gene smiles into his coffee. “Think about the single life you could improve. That’s when it’s worth it.”

“You’re far more of a --- well, I hesitate to say idealist, but it’s what’s springing to mind --- than I ever gave you credit for being.”

“I’m a lot of things you’d never give me credit for being.”

“Will you call me from wherever it is you’re retiring, if I give you my number?”

“Finally, something you don’t know,” Gene jests. “Probably not.”

“I’d like it if you did. It does help to talk to someone about this kind of stuff. And you said you’d be a friend.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gene says.

He regrets it the second he says it, but it’s true. He can’t leave Sam like this. He wants to see him marginally well-adjusted before he tries. And he may be the cause, but it does seem, very much, like he’s also the solution. Sam’s is the single life he could improve, and, regardless of the dangers, the allure of that is strong.

“Good,” Sam states. “Good.”

Gene looks at Sam as he takes a bite of his own fruit cake. He can’t be certain whether he disagrees.


	7. i turned myself to face me

There’s a jackhammer working two doors down, the street’s filthy from the constant construction, and Gene doesn’t think he’s ever seen so many ugly mugged bastards on display before. But this is home. It’s unsettling how right and real it feels, when he goes to the corner shop, and most everyone around sounds just like him, when he’s speeding ‘round corners and knowing all the short-cuts. Like he never left. It hasn’t almost been a decade, has it? He had a weekend down south, that’s all.

It was best to move back to Manchester. Least now there’s the semblance of distance, but so little of the inconvenience. He and Sam meet up about once a week, and Sam regales him with stories of training. He’s learning all about terrorism at the moment, the statistics and the strategies, and he talks about it at length with his eyes all aglitter and his mouth moving a mile a minute. He has views.

“The way I figure, it’s all due to a failure in the system,” he says, tapping his foot against the lino of the café with barely contained energy, all excitement and passion and too much caffeine. “There wouldn’t be terrorism if the institution had any sense of equity and social responsibility.”

“The institution?” Gene mocks. “Might as well have said ‘the man’. There are plenty of ways to deal with life being unfair than blowing up innocent people. You don’t like the world, change it.”

“That’s what they’re trying to do.”

“One poor sod at a time. Why not be constructive, as opposed to destructive, eh?”

“Easy to say. Not so easy to put into practice. An explosion gives a grander effect.”

Gene watches Sam as he reels back in his chair, lazily tossing his arm over the back and drumming a beat on the backrest. He senses Sam’s stopped himself from saying something else, something that’s even less pleasant than the tragedies of humanity’s war on humanity. He doesn’t know whether to be thankful for the self-censorship or not; he can’t guess if it was personally relevant. They’ve done an excellent job of not talking about this thing that they have --- this strange friendship that’s comprised of wide-ranging conversation and heated glances. Sam was overjoyed when Gene said he was moving to Manchester. Jumped around, even; Gene could hear the clomping over the phone. And they’ve met up consistently since then. Seven times now, each more natural-feeling than the last. Still decidedly dangerous, but comfortable too, somehow. Like a job as a steeplejack --- you’ve done it enough times you know what you’re doing, the reward is worthwhile, but there’s always the risk of mutilation and horrible, painful death.

To his credit, Sam has stopped leering and making suggestive remarks. He doesn’t deliberately touch Gene to see his reaction, doesn’t sprawl seductively on purpose. He seems content with things as they stand. So much so that Gene can just about convince himself he’s made the right decision.

“Don’t sympathise with the terrorists too much,” Gene warns. “At the end of the day, no matter the intention, the result’s the same.”

“I know,” Sam says. He fiddles with his coffee cup. “Helps in negotiation, though. Being able to understand the other person’s point of view.”

“Negotiation’s just another way of saying giving up.”

Sam smiles at him, and Gene’s heart skips a beat. “You really believe that, don’t you?” He runs his finger along the top of the cup he refuses to leave alone. “Tell me, Gene, how anyone’s supposed to change the world without compromise?”

Gene goes silent. Sam has an infuriatingly apposite point.

“Hah!” Sam crows. “I won. Did you want cake? I’m gonna get cake.”

“Don’t celebrate too quickly,” Gene says. “Any victory against me is always going to be short lived.”

“Surely that’s all the more reason to celebrate as soon as possible?”

Gene resolutely stares out the window as Sam stands and goes to the counter. He has a horrible habit of always wanting to look at Sam. Whenever they’re in the same room, his eyes automatically search him out, track his movements. It takes willpower and conscious effort to break the inclination. He thinks about Sam’s well-reasoned argument as a distraction. The thing is, his sense of social justice is horribly marred by his sense of killing the dickheads who threaten the city he loves. He can’t care less about far away oppression and vilification, when it’s his own who suffer as a result of the revenge. What’s it to him if some bloke somewhere is plagued by religious persecution? It’s not down the street. He never knew the bloke’s mother. There’s nothing he could do to help. Gene’s never claimed he’s not a hypocrite, but it’s how he feels, and he’s too old to change now. He’s smart enough not to tell Sam, though, who’d never understand. Sam’s no good at prioritising who to care for. His perspective is obviously and irrevocably skewed. He cares for everyone too much, and, when inclined, cares for one person too deeply. Can’t be relied upon at all.

Sam returns a minute later with a slice of cheesecake and a cherry bakewell. He proceeds to cut both in half with precise, efficient strokes, placing a half each on a napkin and sliding it across the table. Gene looks down at the sweets before him, then back up at Sam, who pops half a cherry in his mouth and quirks an eyebrow. Gene frowns, because he refuses to grin.

“You stingy bastard.”

*

The next weekend, Sam’s ten minutes into rabbiting on animatedly about riot gear before Gene manages to ask him how he got his dark purple and impressive shiner.

“Altercation with a baton-enthusiastic no-thumbed trainee?” Gene asks, unable to stop himself from wincing as he imagines it.

“Not quite,” Sam replies, avoiding Gene’s searching glance. He shrugs his shoulders. “Altercation with a brain-dead fist-wielding trainee.”

Gene studies Sam. He stares pointedly. “Sam.”

“Gene.”

“Do you need lessons in appropriate conduct during police training?”

“No. I need lessons in boxing.” Sam feigns another casual shrug. “I was sort of hoping you could help with that.”

Gene finds his gaze settling on the firm press of Sam’s lips. He’s a second away from a pout, Gene can tell.

“I’ll not do anything of the sort unless you tell me what you were fighting about,” Gene says, though really he has no plans whatsoever to weaponise Sam. He’s deadly enough as it is.

“Robert Carlton thinks I’m a soft touch because I’ve thought about the human cost of unquestioned rules and regulations. I decided Carlton should see how entirely not soft I am.”

Unquestioned rules and regulations. Gene can’t say, ‘you never would have thought such things existed ten years ago’, although it is, probably, technically true, no matter his meaning. Sam’s less willing to toe the party line, then. Gene can’t tell if it’s a comfort or a consternation.

“Ahh, right. You thought it’d be grand if Carlton got to experience the hard boniness of your arse as he kicked it two ways to Sunday. Smart.”

“I was doing a good job of fending for myself, kicking back, until he got his mates to pin me,” Sam says bitterly. He leans forward in his chair a touch and Gene finally notices the bruises on his forearms.

“And how are you all still in the course?”

“We hadn’t been fighting each other, officer, honest. It was a role play scenario gone terribly awry. It won’t happen again, Sir. Three bags full, Sir.”

“Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a first for you?”

“Because it’s not.”

Gene’s exasperation can only be contained so far. “Are you made of testosterone or what?”

“Hey, I get my fighting genes from my mother,” Sam says indignantly. He juts his chin forward and tightens his jaw, the look so familiar that Gene’s lips curve reflexively into a smirk.

Gene thinks about Ruth for a second, the cold glint he last saw in her eyes. “I don’t doubt that for a moment.”

“When I was a kid…”

“When you were a kid? Gene interrupts.

“Yeah, when I was a kid, we moved around a lot. I went to four different primary schools, three different secondary schools. I had to prove myself. No one liked me because I knew what we were supposed to know before everyone else, because I found the work easy --- had to teach myself how to do it all before I got to school, really, to survive. I wasn’t gonna let some dickhead walk all over me ‘cause I was the new kid. So I tended to get into a bit of a scrape, every now and then. ”

“What about your mother and her sister, didn’t they keep you in line?”

“Heather? She moved to New Zealand when I was four, calls about once every five months. Anyway, mum all but encouraged me, really. Said I had to be strong.”

The underlying pain in Sam’s expression twists something deep inside Gene.

“Oh,” Gene says. There’s precious little else to respond with.

“If I seem chippy, it’s likely because the chip on my shoulder’s two sizes too big, and I know that. But I can’t and won’t let someone like Carlton push me around.”

“Have you not heard the expression keep your friends close, but your enemies closer?”

“I have, and it’s a meaningless cliché. Friends,” Sam scoffs.

“Did you have no friends?” Gene asks. “What about your band-mates?”

“They were band-mates. I answered an advert in the paper. I auditioned. We’ve been friendly. Not friends. And the police band,” Sam says, “was another open audition.” Sam rubs near his bruised eye. Winces. “I’ve never really had a friend. Not someone I could rely on to have my back. Early on, the moment I’d get along with someone, we’d be off again, so --- I learnt not to expect too much of others, especially if I couldn’t return the favour.”

He says it simply, doesn’t whinge about it, but it’s emotional manipulation all the same. Gene rolls his eyes and sighs.

“If it happens again, I’ll help you, I’ll find someone to give you lessons. But try to make sure it doesn’t happen again, for everyone’s sake.”

“Thanks,” Sam says. He smiles mockingly, though Gene can’t tell if it’s self-directed, or intended for him. “It’s nice to know there’s a heart in there somewhere that responds to sob stories.”

*

His place is a small semi-detached, on a street that’s thankfully quiet now that the roadworks are finished with. It’s a nice place. Comfortable. Boring. No one ever told him retirement would be one long day of tedium after another, and he’d thought paperwork was bad. You knew it was a sorry state of affairs when you were missing having to read and check off reports. Downright appalling when you longed for obligatory phone calls. He spends an inordinately immense amount of time every week (every day) looking forward to his outings with Sam. It’s pathetically, tragically sad, and after two months of watching telly, reading the classics, going down the shop, pretending to do housework, and making a frankly abysmal attempt at creating a potted plant garden, Gene settles on getting himself a job.

It turns out it’s surprisingly difficult to get a job when you’ve got streaks of grey at your temples, despite your obviously virile strength. No one seems to want to pay him for any kind of labour, so he winds up involved in the local church’s youth outreach programme; strictly voluntary, but time consuming with it. He spends his weekdays talking to thirteen to eighteen year olds with dodgy backgrounds and dodgier rap sheets. So. Not that different from his weekends, then. He organises outings, sports tournaments, arranges a couple of speeches from the more community-minded crims he knows --- ‘don’t screw your life up’ type stuff.

At first, he garners very little respect, not because they know who he is --- no one does, though Jackson Riley informs him early on the stench of pork is unmistakeable --- but because no one’s ever given these children respect to begin with. He tries. It doesn’t come easily. It’s really only listening to their stories he begins to appreciate their resilience and tenacity, and how easy it is to get caught up in the wrong crowd and make mistakes. When he’d been a youth, National Service had sorted him out. As had his desire to become a cop. And to be fair, had he not worn the uniform from the age of nineteen onwards, it would have been hard to distinguish him from the ne’er-do-wells. He’d spent a fair amount of time in the same kinds of places, doing many of the same kinds of things. He’s surprised, but it’s actually easy to relate.

Within another couple of weeks, Gene’s enthusiastically welcomed into the community hall they use as a base every time he rocks up, and staggered by how frequently the likes of Jackson, Marigold, Tyrone, Joshua and Patricia ask for one of his stories. He does get a frown or two from the other volunteers when he gets too grisly, but he doesn’t rightly care. He finds he enjoys this more than he thought he would. He’s not a church-goer, doesn’t believe in God, but Good Works are good works regardless, and it gives him distraction, not to mention purpose.

His phone rings when he’s sitting on his sofa eating a tv dinner, having had a long day of refereeing football matches. It’s Thursday, so no one should be calling, but they are, so he answers.

“Good to see you’re still up,” Sam intones, and Gene can imagine his expression; all bright eyes and hidden smirk. It’s just gone seven. The bloody nerve of it is startling. “I have a favour to ask. Can I kip at yours tonight?”

“What’re you doing in Manchester?”

“I’ve a date. I don’t much relish the idea of attempting to get back into Warrington at three in the morning, half-cut and staggering.”

“Don’t you have training in the morning?”

“Yes I do. Which is why I’d like some decent sleep after a night of dancing. Would it be alright?”

“I suppose so. The key’s under that disgusting little gnome you foistered off on me. You can collapse on the sofa. Make sure you don’t bang about too much.”

“I’ll do my level best.”

Gene settles back into watching telly, but his mind begins a treacherous journey into wondering about Sam’s date. How far it might go. What it might entail. Where, and when, and whether. He’s happy for Sam, really he is. It’s an exceedingly good sign that he’s finally getting over his strange compulsion. Pretty soon he’ll get on with his life like a normal human being. They both will.

Except that Gene also keeps conjuring up scenes of Sam dancing with a fit, faceless bloke, and, against his better judgement, chucks his dinner in the bin and grabs his bottle of Glenlivet.

*

Gene refuses to say he’s startled, worried or shocked when his front door handle rattles at nine thirty that night --- but he’s mildly put out. He stands in his hallway with one of his new and never-to-be-used golf clubs, and waits for whatever numb-skulled bandit decided this was a good place to break into. But then the door swings open and Sam steps in.

Gene points an accusatory finger. “You’re early.”

“That’s okay, isn’t it?”

“Depends on if you’re planning on bringing your bloke back here for a round of kissy-face,” Gene says immediately, mentally kicking himself in the knackers at letting his mouth talk before his brain’s had time to intervene. He blames the scotch.

“My date was female,” Sam says with a fixed look as he pushes through into the lounge. “And her boyfriend wouldn’t approve of continued kissy-face.”

“It was like that, was it?”

“Apparently.” Sam swings down onto the sofa and pouts. “I really liked her n’all. We connected.”

“Had good tits, did she?”

Sam snorts, rolls his eyes.

“Big, juicy, bouncy ones?” Gene continues.

“You’re such a pig,” Sam says, genuinely horrified. Gene settles next to him on the sofa and pours him a glass of scotch. Sam takes it, has a sip, but clearly hasn’t developed a taste for it yet, because he sets it down on the ground, nudging it away with his foot.

“Once a pig, always a pig. You’ll learn that soon enough,” Gene concedes. “But this isn’t piggish. I have a healthy appreciation of the female form, that’s all.”

“Oh, you do?” Sam asks, genuinely curious.

“I think we’ve both learned a valuable lesson in not jumping to conclusions this evening, haven’t we, Sammy-boy?” Gene taunts.

He’s ashamed by how pleased he is that Sam’s here sitting next to him. Even more mortified by his joy that the one date he’s heard about went disastrously.

“What did she look like, then?”

“Tall, willowy, brown eyes and hair. Classical features, you know the deal.”

“Far too good for you. You must have sensed it was a trap.”

“Well, she had braces,” Sam says, “even though she was twenty-two.”

Gene raises an eyebrow and goads even more. “Not a trap, then. You being overly generous.”

“I liked,” Sam says, carefully, “her personality.”

“I’m sure she’d say the same about you.”

“Oi, whatever happened to drop dead gorgeous?”

“It dropped dead. Now shut your mouth, ‘cause Gary Cooper’s on soon.”

“Isn’t there anything to decent to watch?”

“Yeah. Like I said. Gary Cooper’s on soon.”

Sam talks during The Cowboy and the Lady, voraciously. He keeps up a running commentary.

“This is appalling. Who’d willingly have a hand in creating this dreck? My God, what the fuck is she wearing? Bloody hell, now they’re making goggly eyes at each other. Why are we still watching this, why?”

Gene eventually shuts him up with a hand over his mouth, but Sam starts to lick his palm, so he yanks it away, and half contemplates slapping him.

“Be quiet or I’m kicking you out,” he says. He means it.

For the next two hours, Sam is blissfully silent. He even falls asleep during The Real Glory, his head lolling on Gene’s shoulder. Gene doesn’t have the heart to push him off. He likes the press of Sam’s body against his own, the heat and weight of him. He likes his faint smell of aftershave, the sound of his breathing, how his hair tickles his neck. Within the next twenty minutes, Gene falls asleep himself.

It’s four thirty-six when he finally awakes, for reasons he can’t fathom, and he shifts before thinking of the consequences. Sam stirs, his eyes opening.

“Gene,” he says, sleepily, giving the soppiest, dopiest grin, and reaching up to tug him into a kiss. Gene can tell he realises he’s not dreaming within two seconds. He must register the look of mounting horror on Gene’s face. He doesn’t, however, look altogether contrite. He simply rests his hand back on his chest and moves position, placing his back against the armrest of the sofa, until there’s space between them.

“I’ve something to confess,” Sam says, voice sleep-thick. “I wasn’t too put out by Adriana’s revelations, because my plan was always to come here early and harangue you.”

“You succeeded admirably.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“I don’t have the energy.”

Sam looks at his watch and wrinkles his nose. “I’ve got to be up in three hours, but now I’m awake, I doubt I’ll be able to get back to sleep in a hurry. Will you stay and talk with me?”

“Is there any other option?”

“You could go to bed and try to sleep as you hear me banging through your kitchen cupboards, looking for a saucepan and cocoa.”

“I’ll stay and talk, then.”

“Good. Because I wanna hear about these kids you’re mentoring.”

“These kids? Some of them are your age.”

“You said the cut-off was eighteen. I’m nineteen,” Sam says with a yawn. “I go out on the beat in three and a half weeks.”

“A truly terrifying thought.”

“And it’s almost entirely thanks to you.”

They chat for another hour, until Sam’s eyelids droop and Gene’s limbs deaden. Gene stumbles to his bed, slipping into catatonia easily. After two hours of deep sleep, Gene’s awoken again by clanging in his kitchen, so he dresses and makes his way there, lazily watching Sam as he dishes up a congealed white monstrosity that looks like it has tentacles.

“I made you breakfast. As a thank you,” Sam says happily.

“What, in Shit’s name, is this?”

“Perfectly edible egg, despite its appearance. I tried to poach it. I didn’t exactly succeed.”

“That much is obvious.”

“Eat up,” Sam orders. He pats Gene’s shoulder. “If you’re a good boy, you’ll get seconds.”

*

On Tuesday, Sam turns up at his place with a sour expression and a split lip.

“What did you do?”

“Called Carlton a motherfucker. May have simulated the action with a family photo from his desk.”

Gene cradles Sam’s jaw in his hand and inspects the cut. It’s deep, might even need stitches. Sam makes a sound perilously close to a whimper and moves into the touch. Gene doesn’t remove his hand, yet, can’t find a way that’d be natural and unaffected. His mask is slipping.

“Why?”

“He called me a pussy. I didn’t take kindly to it.”

“You’re such a hothead,” Gene says. “You need to learn to contain it.”

“I need to learn how to fight.”

“No. Fighting’s letting the animal in you take control. You need some damn restraint.”

“Would you really want that?” Sam challenges. His eyelashes sweep down and up again, and when he looks at Gene, his expression has changed. “Emotion,” he says. “You told me it was important. You said I shouldn’t go without it. But since then, it’s been a hard line in repression. Well, I don’t want to be suppressed, Gene.”

Sam cranes into his touch again, looks like he’s going to do something rash. Gene drags his hand away, steps back.

“Fine,” Gene says, voice harsh in his throat. “I’ll teach you how to fight. “

“Thanks.”

“We can use the mock boxing ring at the community hall,” Gene says, “but this is going to be a lesson in discipline. You’re not meant to be fighting your own.”

“I’d agree with you there, but Carlton is not my own.”

“I could go and talk to Ash McIntosh if you’d like? Get him sorted out through official channels?”

Sam looks ready to explode. “Don’t you dare.”

“Alright then. We’ll start on Saturday. For now, you need to see a doctor.”

Gene thinks Sam will refuse, but instead he nods, like he may sometimes be sensible and follow advice. Gene reaches out and cuffs him around the head, playfully.

“Honestly, Sam. You’re nothing but a pain.”

Sam gives him a calculated glance. “But the good kind, right? The kind you never want to go away?”

Gene neither confirms nor denies the allegation.


	8. the days float through my eyes

Gene arrives at the community centre on Saturday to find Sam already there, strumming a guitar and singing as Jackson, Tyrone and Patricia watch. He’s been there a while, maybe an hour, judging by how friendly everyone’s being. He was probably checking up on Gene, the pain. Asking around about what he’s like. He’s shown an unnatural interest in Gene’s community work, but then, that’s no different to all of the interest in Gene he’s shown.

Every so often, Jackson adds in a back-up vocal to Sam’s singing, and Gene’s surprised, but they sound like they could be a successful duo, with a bit of practice. Jackson’s got a good voice, and Sam can sing --- smooth and rich and steady. Gene feels like he should know that, but he hadn’t. Ray was always a songbird after five drinks, and Chris would occasionally join in, hell, Gene himself would lark about if he was really past it, but Sam was always silent. Gene stands at the end of the hall and watches the free, happy way Sam interacts. This is the first time Gene’s seen him with a guitar where he’s seemed at ease, the first time he’s been performing and come across as confident. A dark voice in his mind suggests that with the cut on his lip and his general swagger, he fits right in among the delinquents.

But they’re not really delinquents, as Gene well knows, and it isn’t exactly shocking that Sam should be getting along with them. The truth is, even though Gene constantly keeps Sam’s age to the forefront of his mind, it’s still hard to think of him as nineteen. It’s not that he doesn’t seem young, because he does. More that there’s a disconnect between acknowledging that youth and realising what it means.

Sam’s midway through a line when Gene steps closer, arresting his attention. He stops and puts the guitar to the side, causing Patricia to whine.

“Sorry, my tutor’s here,” Sam explains with a winning smile. Patricia can’t sulk against that. Gene’s fairly sure her fifteen year old hormones prevent her from anything other than falling madly and deeply in lust.

Jackson looks from Sam to Gene. “Your tutor’s Oink?”

“You call Gene ‘Oink’ and you’re still alive? That’s impressive.”

“Jackson doesn’t like our boys in blue,” Gene says with a pointed look. “And I’m not your tutor, Roger is.” He gestures towards Roger, who’s a former boxer and, as such, far more qualified in giving sound advice.

Sam looks about to protest, his mouth opening and closing twice, a flash of anger in his eyes, but he clearly thinks better of it. “Why didn’t you tell me before? I could have been practicing this whole time.”

“Didn’t know you were planning on turning up early, did I?”

Neither Jackson nor Patricia seem to realise there’s a conversation ongoing underneath the words they’re speaking. That Sam’s all ready to pack up his toys and go home, because he expected Gene to teach him, because this was one in his long line of ploys to get too close. That Gene himself knew this and therefore took appropriate measures to ensure that wouldn’t happen. Gene wouldn’t know this conversation was ongoing if there wasn’t the hint of betrayal around Sam’s glance at Roger, a tightening of his lips.

They walk over to Roger together and Gene introduces him to Sam. He’s an amiable, jolly bloke, despite his appearance; built like a brick shithouse and covered in tattoos all down his right arm. He casts an assessing glance over Sam that has Sam puffing out his chest. Gene wills himself not to laugh. When Gene first met Roger, he severely underestimated him, assuming that because he’d no doubt been knocked round the head a hundred dozen times, he’d not remember how to tie his shoelaces. He’d been wrong. Roger’s sharp as a tack. He braces Sam by the shoulders and nods his head.

“You’ll be quick and light on your feet. Soon as you have the basics, you’ll be more than a match for any tossbag who tries to threaten you.”

It’s clever on two counts, Gene reflects. The first because it gets Sam on side and boosts his confidence; the second because it is, actually, true. Gene thinks back to their fight, on that fateful first meeting. Sam had the strength to throw a mean punch, fair enough. What he hadn’t had was balance.

“The most important thing you’ll learn is the stance,” Roger says. “You’ve gotta think of your stance as like the base of a good cheesecake. It’s comprised of only a couple key ingredients, but without it, the whole thing flops. It’s gotta be firm, but needs some flexibility. Now, are you right-handed or left-handed?”

Gene wants to watch the entire lesson, wants to see how Sam fares, but it’ll look a little strange, and he’s got a tonne of work he could be doing. He’s setting up a fundraising carnival with a lovely lady named Meg; a blue-rinsed elderly lass who reminds him of his long-passed mum. It’s only going to be the very basics today, anyway, so stretching, hand-wrapping, stance. Roger might have Sam throwing a jab, but he’s not going to go much further. Boxing’s an art-form and Sam’s going to realise it takes time and discipline. Gene’s not sure if he wants Sam to stick with it or not.

He gives a curt wave and goes into the office to make some phonecalls. Jackson comes and hangs in the doorway.

“Is he your son?”

“No. Does he look anything like me? Anything at all?”

“I don’t look like my dad. Different colour and everything, and I’m glad of it. It’s possible.”

Gene takes a deep breath and fakes a close-lipped smile. “He’s not my son. He’s a family friend.”

“Didn’t think you had a family, let alone friends.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me young Mr Jackson. Now, I don’t want to be spoiling your fun, but I’ve a lot of work to be getting on with.”

“He may not be your son, but you care about him, yeah?” Jackson continues. Gene frowns, not knowing where he’s going with this. “I mean, you’re all protective and shit. More so than with us.”

“As I said, he’s a family friend.”

“But you’ll still be coming here, won’t you? You know, you’re not gonna abandon us, just ‘cause you’ve got a new pet.”

Gene rolls his eyes. “He was my pet before I met any of you. Of course I’m still gonna come. In fact, I’m trying to organise a fundraising day so as we can get more resources. If you’d shut your trap and shove off.”

“Will you bring him again?”

“I didn’t bring him this time, did I? Why? D’you want me to?”

“Maybe.”

Gene starts to think that letting these worlds collide was incredibly thick.

“He may be coming here for regular boxing lessons. We’ll see in about an hour as to whether he chooses to come back.”

Jackson beams, then mercifully leaves Gene in peace. Gene gets on with his calls, getting them a marquee for the yard outside and the use of a sound system. But he’s distracted. He’d thought he’d sorted the dilemma out by asking Roger to teach Sam, but even just allowing Sam to come here feels like a risk too big to have taken. He’s almost tempted to go and tell Jackson that Sam’s soon to be on the beat, that he’s already in a band and couldn’t really be seen consorting with a lad who’s already got a two-page rap sheet. Instead, he makes a couple of other calls, then oversees a football game in the yard.

*

An hour and a half later, Sam sidles up to him, covered in sweat, huffing, puffing, and squinting every so often. Looks like Roger taught him more than just a jab. Must be a quick learner. And why is that not surprising?

“Can we go get lunch now?”

“You could go get lunch any time you like. I’m not your keeper.”

Sam winces as he takes a breath too deep. “Yeah, except I paid last week and this week it’s your turn.”

“I’ve gotta save my pennies. You’ll soon be rolling in it.”

“C’mon Gene, you bait and switched me, the least you owe me is a pasty.”

Gene glares. “You seem to think I owe you the world, over the smallest infractions!”

Sam settles onto the bricks next to him and looks a mixture of confused and determined. He doesn’t waver from his spot for a good fifteen minutes, all the while catching his breath, and unwittingly scrunching his hairstyle into a mock-mohawk as he drags his hand against his scalp, attempting to dry his hair. He looks just this side of pitiful, and much as he’d like to, Gene doesn’t have strength against that.

“Come on, then. But you’re not getting dessert.”

“Don’t think I could stomach it,” Sam says cheerily, and they walk to the local café together.

Sam eats two Cornish pasties with ketchup, and, despite saying he couldn’t stomach it, sneaks half of Gene’s sticky bun. He drinks four coffees and as the lunch hour progresses, puts Gene in mind of a wind-up toy. He starts off lacklustre, and ends up far too revved up.

“I like Roger,” Sam says. “But I’m still kind of annoyed you shoved me onto him, when I didn’t really want anyone else getting involved in this.”

Gene had been hoping they could avoid this conversation. He really had. “Better to be taught for someone who knows exactly what they’re doing than a dick who makes it up as he goes along.”

“Still, some forewarning might’ve been nice.”

“Would you have gone through with it?”

“I might’ve.”

“Really?”

“I’d probably try to change your mind.”

“Exactly.”

Sam pouts at his fingers, flexing them a few times. “I’m not trying to trick you, you know. I don’t have designs.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“No, I mean it. I don’t know any other way to be with people. I don’t know any other way to get what I want other than making a game of it all. But I expect you to know the rules, Gene. I’m not counting on cheating you.”

“You can’t just trust that I’d want to spend time with you?”

“Well, no, and frankly, in this case, I was right.”

Gene dips his head in admission. “Fair cop.”

“Roger’s gonna give me another lesson next Saturday. He says I’m a natural, but he’s not getting paid, so I don’t know why he’d be buttering me up.”

“You are a natural,” Gene says. “You might be skinny as pot-noodle, but you’re wiry with it. Don’t sell yourself short.”

Sam attempts to hide how pleased he is with this statement. He fails, badly. “I’ve gotta be at Sedgley House in an hour. I guess I’ll see you next Saturday.”

“Call, if you like,” Gene says as Sam stands up. “Tell me how the week goes. I’m curious.”

“You know it’ll just be one long lecture after another, but okay.”

*

A month goes by. The fundraiser is an unmitigated success, raking in a fifteen hundred pound profit that goes towards new sports gear and a couple of new cassette players. Gene admits that he’s proud of himself in a way he hasn’t been for a long time. Sam is finally unleashed on the world in full regalia, with a baton and everything, which Gene thinks is probably a mistake. He also comes to the community centre for a boxing lesson every week, and seems to enjoy it more than he’s willing to let on. Patricia starts insisting on being called Tricia, Sam and Jackson make sure to sing at least one song together when Sam’s at the hall, and Meg wins a writing competition. Everything seems to be going well, which should set the alarm bells ringing all on its own.

It’s just gone eleven when there’s a thump at his door. He wasn’t asleep anyway, he was watching late night telly, but he does wonder who’d be calling round at that time of night.

It’s Sam, his uniform torn, his face bloodied. He about collapses when Gene opens the door and drags him in. Gene hauls him onto the sofa and cradles his jaw.

“Jesus fuck, what happened?”

Sam slurs. “Couldn’t go to mum’s like this, she’d worry.”

“Okay, I get that, but what happened, Sam? Do I need to call the police?”

Sam gives a hysterical giggle. “I am the police.”

“Sam, was it a gang, or what? I need to know.”

Sam gives a great, hacking cough, and falls to the side of the sofa, curling his legs up under him.

“It was Carlton,” Sam croaks eventually, teeth bloodied as he bares them in a grimace.

“Carlton did this to you? What did you do this time?”

“I existed. It was enough.”

Gene doesn’t get any more sense out of Sam. He washes him up, helps him undress, changing him into the smallest shirt and pair of shorts he has. He does it methodically, telling himself it’s just a body, and a battered one at that, but he can’t help but notice that there’s muscle where once there was a slight podge. Sam’s slimmer now than when they first met and that doesn’t come across as a good sign. He also notices the St Christopher’s Medal that Sam still wears, contrasted against the pale of his skin.

He lays him on his bed and watches as he falls asleep. He keeps a vigil, worried he might have concussion. Sam cries in the night. Gene doesn’t know what it is at first, the snuffling and whimpering, but tears roll thick and fast onto the pillowcase, and Gene rubs Sam’s forehead.

In the morning, he goes to get Sam a cup of tea and comes back to find him changing back into his uniform. Bruises have started to form over his face, his eye is swollen. He wheezes like he has a cracked rib.

“Sorry,” Sam says distantly. “I’ve been a burden again.”

Gene steps over and takes Sam’s shirt from his fingers. He gently presses Sam’s shoulders until he’s against the bed and sits him down. “You’re not a burden. Tell me what’s going on. You said Carlton beat you because you exist. Is he completely mental, or what?”

“Well, I think he is, but no one else does,” Sam says, staring at his feet. “He’s homophobic. He recognised me from the club scene, the first day during training. He’d seen me with this guy I used to hang around with, Frankie. Decided to show me that the force was no place for a bender like me.”

“Why didn’t you say so before?”

“I thought I could handle it.”

“Pride got in the way of common sense, you mean.”

“It’s not pride. At least, not the way you’re thinking. I wanted to show him I’m not weak. I may take it up the arse, but that doesn’t mean I’ll fall to pieces with a little tap.”

Gene resists the urge to pull Sam into a hug. It all slots neatly into place. He’s been defending himself the entire time. He hasn’t been going off half-cocked because he’s a screw loose. Isn’t unstable, lacking in control. He’s been trying to stand up for himself. And he hinted as much to Gene, more than once, and Gene was too blind to realise it. All this time he’d thought it was schoolboy antics, a personality conflict that had its out in punches because of Sam’s natural and as yet unrepressed tendency towards the physical.

“You attacked him, that day of the lecture, to prove to him you were every bit the fighter he was.” Gene shakes his head. “You weren’t too upset being thrown out of the training programme, because at least then you’d be out of his reach.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Don’t tell me, you explained what was going on to Vertue.”

“How’d you know?”

Gene takes a shuddering, self-loathing breath. “Instinct.” He gives Sam the once over. “When you say you need to learn how to fight, you mean it.”

“Yeah, I wasn’t being metaphorical.”

“Tell you what, we’ll get you patched up and I’ll see about upping your training programme.”

Sam gives a dark chuckle. “I did everything Roger’s taught me, you know. Had the stance, had the formation. He still beat me.”

“It takes practice, that’s all.”

“I don’t think that’s all.”

Gene rubs his hand against Sam’s back, gliding his thumb over the nubs of his spine. “So, what, you’re gonna give up?”

“No. I just don’t think boxing is gonna do much help.”

“You might be right, there.” Gene stands, goes for his coat. “As I said, we need to get you patched up. It’ll probably look dodgier than a ten p hooker’s muff if I take you to my GP again, so we’ll have to go find another clinic.”

*

It turns out no ribs are cracked, in the end. Sam’s bruised, but not broken. The best he’s offered is some paracetamol, which he takes gratefully. They go back to Gene’s, and Gene makes scrambled eggs on toast. He sets the plate in front of Sam and is immediately worried when he doesn’t start shovelling down forkfuls.

“What are you gonna say, then? To account for your appearance?”

“I don’t know. I’m not on shift again until Tuesday, maybe this’ll clear up by then.” Sam stares hopefully at Gene and successfully interprets his expression to the contrary. He grimaces. “I somehow doubt Carlton would get kicked out were I to say why he attacked me, and I am known to deliberately antagonise him. If I said it was him, I could be in as much trouble, officially.”

“If you say it was a gang of street kids, you could get the department wasting resources on catching perps who don’t exist.”

Sam nods. “It’s a conundrum.” He pushes his plate away and looks apologetic. “I can’t eat this.”

“You need to keep your strength up.”

“Maybe later.”

“Go get some more rest, then.”

“Do you mind if I have a bath instead?”

Part of Gene wants to ask Sam why he can’t go home to do that, but the other part that wants to keep close watch is only too happy. It’s clear that Sam is in no hurry to be alone, and Gene’s the only person he can rely on who he isn’t scared of worrying. He either underestimates Gene’s capacity to worry or doesn’t care as much about the results.

Gene collects a couple of towels and places them on top of the lavatory lid, watching at Sam drags his hand through the water to check the temperature.

“Use your elbow,” he says.

“What?”

“It’s easier to tell if the water’s too hot. Did your mother never tell you that?”

“I’m guessing yours did?”

“No, that was my wife. Many moons ago.” Gene looks around the bathroom and gives a dissatisfied grunt. “We should’ve got you some clothes. I’ve nothing that’ll fit.”

“What happened to your trendy 70s stylings?”

“They got left in London.”

“My uniform will do.” Sam turns off the taps and stands, looking at Gene. Gene finds himself looking back. Sam quirks an eyebrow and makes a gesture towards the tub. “Well, I’m gonna get in the bath now.”

“Right. I’ll leave you to it.”

Gene goes downstairs and considers his plan of action. He has a dark and desperate urge to seek Carlton out and beat him within an inch of his life. He thinks it’s best not to show that rage and fury to Sam, who’d no doubt tell him to get his nose out of his business anyway. He doesn’t know how to help. Should he risk her ire and tell Ruth? Probably better to convince Sam to do so himself. He can’t guarantee she isn’t every bit as murderous in defence of her son as he is --- in fact, judging by their last encounter, she’s more. And chances are, she’d blame him, think he’s the source of all Sam’s ills. He wonders if she wouldn’t be in some ways right.

Sam comes down after forty minutes, half in his uniform and half out of it, rubbing a towel against his head. He looks refreshed, rejuvenated, but like he’s gone five rounds with Frank Bruno.

He sits down on the sofa next to Gene. “Would you do me a favour?”

“I think we’ve already established that I would.”

“Will you help me in a training session? I don’t think Roger would and I want to at least feel I could stand up to another pummelling, if I had to.”

“In your state,” Gene says, “you must be joking?”

“I can’t handle feeling so vulnerable all the time,” Sam says, closing his eyes for a moment. “Bet you’ve never felt weak in your life.”

“’course I have,” Gene mutters. He’s a second from saying, ‘I feel weak now.’

“I don’t wanna wake up tomorrow and realise I’m scared of my own shadow.”

“Punishing yourself won’t fix that.”

“Getting some stamina would.”

“Not today, Sam. You’re not going anywhere near a boxing ring today.” Gene looks Sam up and down, taking in the defeated bow of his head, the shudder in every breath. His urge to both hug and punch rise exponentially. “How about I take you home for now and we have a session in the morning?”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah. Give you a few more hours for your muscles to mend at the least.”

“I appreciate it, Gene, more than words can say.”

“You won’t be saying that when I’m punching the living daylights out of you.”

Sam gives the semblance of a smile. “And there I was thinking you’d be all noble and deliberately take the fall.”

“No such luck. You’re gonna have to earn any victory against me.”

*

That evening, when he hopes Sam’s safely tucked up in bed, Gene tracks down Carlton’s address. It doesn’t take much doing, and getting there’s no problem either. He’s out, by the look of things. Possibly out on shift. Gene waits two and a half hours, all the while revising and adding to what he’s going to say to Carlton. It starts off simple and gets more and more elaborate as time wears on. He ensures there’s the requisite number of ‘gobshite’s and ‘knob-head’s, decides to include ‘pissant’. There’s no doubt in Gene’s mind that Sam’s not the only victim of Carlton’s abuse --- that he gets his kicks from terrorising others. Gene wants him to feel some of that terror.

It gets so late that Gene decides he’d be better off at home, especially since he’s meant to be ready for seven in the morning. He reminds himself there’s more than time enough for vengeance. What’s immediately necessary is mending what’s been damaged. He drives back to his place and gets as much shut-eye as he can, having fitful dreams filled with revenge.

*

Sam’s early again. He arrives at just gone six forty-five. Luckily, he’s not so early that Gene hasn’t finished preparations. The coffee table’s in the kitchen, the stand-up lamp in the bedroom, the sofa’s pushed right back against the wall; there’s plenty of space in the living room.

Sam states the obvious. “We’re doing it here.”

“Probably safer that way. Then, after I’ve creamed you, you’ll have a nice cushiony sofa to rest on.”

Sam’s good eye crinkles around the edges. “You’re so not as menacing as you wish you were. I think it’s the use of cushiony. Cushiony is never scary.”

“The cushiony bog monster?” Gene asks as he begins to wrap his hands.

“Nope.”

“Cushiony suffocation?”

“No.”

“Margaret Thatcher’s cushiony derriere?”

“That’s just gross. And anyway, it’s generally accepted fact she’s a hard arse.”

Gene finishes wrapping his hands and passes the tape over to Sam. Sam binds methodically, and then goes over a series of stretches, limbering up. His bruises are darker today, but he’s moving more naturally, and he’s stopped wheezing, which is a good sign. Gene isn’t keen on this, is sure it’s on the thicker end of bad ideas, but Sam wants it, needs it, and he can’t deny him. As far as Gene’s concerned, Sam needs someone in his life who’ll help him unconditionally, someone he can rely upon and trust, someone who’ll have his back --- and okay, he’s not the best fit, not by a wide margin, but he’s the only one here.

Sam steps into position. Gene has avoided every single one of Sam’s lessons with Roger, so he didn’t know how Sam would look when holding the correct stance. He looks like a miniature version of a professional boxer and it makes Gene want to laugh. There’s fight and determination in his glance, the promise of fury in his punches. It’s sweet, really. Darling. He’s a little boy with big aspirations. Gene quashes the sensation. He reckons Sam would think he’s making a mockery of him, and he most likely would be.

“I’m not gonna go easy on you just ‘cause you’re a day away from getting a seniors card,” Sam says.

“Got one already,” Gene says, unperturbed. “Discount flicks on Tuesdays. It’s a dream come true.”

“I don’t want you to go easy on me either.”

“Oh, believe me, I won’t.”

They start to spar, dancing around each other like prize-fighters in a ring. It’s been a long, long time since Gene’s done this with any formality and he was always more of a watcher than a participant. He trusts in his abilities, though, because while Sam’s playing it by the book, he’s not so restricted. Sam’s goes for a right cross, but Gene ducks to the side and grabs his arm. He pushes it back and spins Sam around, grabbing him so that he’s tight against his back, Sam’s right arm sandwiched between them.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks, high-pitched.

“You wanna learn how to fight, Tyler, you've gotta learn how to fight dirty,” Gene says.

“You said I needed discipline.”

“And now you have it. Show me what else you’ve got.”

Gene loosens hold and half-expects Sam to leave the room, shout that he’s crazed, go home --- but Sam swings his leg back and tries to trip Gene. He isn’t quick enough, doesn’t quite get the right angle.

“Nice try,” Gene taunts. “My great aunt Agnes has better form than you.”

Sam moves into a one-two combination and succeeds in landing a blow, but Gene simultaneously strikes to his side, causing Sam to cry out in pain.

“And she’s pickled in gin and missing an eye.”

Sam throws a double jab, then a left hook. Gene jabs, right hooks. They exhaust all the combinations they know, breathing becoming steadily more strained on both their sides, muscles cording with the effort. Sam has a strong punch and balance, now. He has the basics down to a tee. He’s got good reflexes and he uses them. But he’s lacking the overall picture in bringing down his opponent. He concentrates too much on one thing at a time. He wants it to be over with, so he goes for easy shots.

Sam spends a lot of time going for Gene’s head, but Gene concentrates on Sam’s body. He doesn’t like seeing the pain displayed in his eyes, but he’s trying to teach him a valuable lesson, and it’s important for Sam to realise this. Eventually, he seems to catch on, because he starts to aim lower. He keeps a strong stance, but he changes the nature of his punches, and at one stage he gets up close to Gene and sweeps his leg while punching three times quick in succession.

“Fucking ow,” Gene yells, attempting to pay Sam back in kind, but Sam’s too fast. He knocks Gene in the head.

This turns out to be a mistake, because Gene grabs hold of his middle as he does so and catapults him to the floor. Sam writhes as he pins him, swears, tries to knee him in the balls. There’s a sheen of sweat over him, damp hair curled against his forehead. He doesn’t look like a little kid playing pretend. He looks lithe, muscular, splayed out for Gene’s attentions. The reason Gene never wanted to do this in the first place becomes blindingly apparent and he lets Sam go. But Sam doesn’t know how to leave well enough alone and he climbs on top of Gene, pressing down onto his wrists; his thighs tight against Gene’s sides.

“What was that about fighting dirty?”

Sam’s just heavy enough and he’s just tired enough that he finds it difficult to get free. Struggling only intensifies his unwanted physical reaction to Sam’s body pressed against his. Sam grabs hold of his hair and pulls his head back, leans down low and speaks in his ear.

“What tips do you have for me, then? How can I improve?”

“I think you sorted them all out as we went along,” Gene admits. He does his level best to make his voice sound light and casual. “You can get off me now.”

“I like it here,” Sam says.

Gene stiffens as Sam nuzzles against his neck and licks along his jaw. It’s only for a couple of seconds, but it’s definitely a lick --- wet and rough and tantalising. He quells a groan as Sam rocks his hips three times before climbing off and resting against the sofa.

“That was inappropriate,” Gene chastises, wanting to cuff Sam round the ear and drag him into a kiss at the same time.

Sam barks out a laugh. “I do apologise. Next time I’m on top of you, I’ll try to keep it all strictly professional.”

“Carlton’s about twice your size, isn’t he?” Gene asks as he sits up. He wants to distract Sam, but he also has to make the point.

“How can you tell?”

“He’d never trounce you so thoroughly otherwise. You have about as much fight in you as is physically and psychologically possible.”

“What you’re saying is there’s no hope.”

Gene rubs the back of his head, thinks of a way to frame his response without causing offense.

“Basically.”

Sam sucks in a deep breath, rubs a hand against his jaw. “I hate the thought of him winning.”

“Trying to take him down with his own game might not be the best answer.”

“What do you suggest?”

“If I had any helpful suggestions, I’d’ve given them already.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“I try.” Gene stands, shakily, holds his hand out to help Sam up. “Maybe keep an eye on him, see if he’s into anything not strictly by the book. I know the type. He fits it.”

Sam launches himself to his feet and nods a couple of times, as if considering this tack. “And in the meantime, run the hell away if he comes near me?”

“Do your darnedest not to be alone with him, at any stretch.”

“I sound like a fucking wimp.”

“Having a brain is not the same as being a wimp.”

Sam suddenly stands to full height, tipping up his jaw. “You didn’t cream me.”

“No. And it’s not like I didn’t do my best.”

“So I think that means I won. What’s my prize?”

“You get to buy me breakfast. It’s your turn and you owe me compensation and gratitude, which equates to eggs, bacon, sausages and beans, plus copious amounts of coffee.”

*

Carlton arrives at his place at eleven that night. Gene’s been waiting an hour and change. Carlton’s in uniform, he’s dragging his feet; it’s been a long day. He’s every bit as massive as Gene predicted, though. Six foot four, solid muscle. Looks like the lovechild of the Incredible Hulk and Henry Cooper. This doesn’t deter Gene as much as it should.

Before he can close the door, Gene pulls it from his grasp and barrels Carlton in. He shoves him to the ground and stands on his chest with his right foot. Carlton looks like he’s about to twist Gene’s ankle off when he sees the barrel of the gun and halts, eyes growing wide. He’s too young and stupid to check if the safety’s on. Too ignorant to realise it’s not loaded.

“What d’you want?”

“I want you to stop being a pissant,” Gene says slowly, emphasising each word to make his point. He remembers what it’s like to have blood rushing in his ears and he wants Carlton to come away from the experience knowing exactly what’s expected. He wouldn’t want this to get any crueller than it has to be.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Carlton whines.

“You do,” Gene says, pressing his foot down harder. “Throwing your weight around, making a name for yourself.”

“I’m a cop,” Carlton says, starting to wriggle. “You can’t do this.”

Gene cocks the gun to one side, goes low and presses it into the centre of Carlton’s forehead. Carlton whimpers, going still.

“Your job as a cop is to serve and protect, but you haven’t been doing that, have you? You think it makes you a big man, threatening your own? You think it makes you look powerful? It shows how weak you truly are, you pathetic little gobshite.

“If I hear that you’ve been up to the same old tricks, Carlton, I’m not just gonna wave this gun around, I can promise you that.”

Carlton starts to cry. “What’ll you do?”

“I’ll kill you,” Gene says, with finality. “You touch a hair on anyone else’s head, ever again, and I will kill you.”


	9. grow up and out of it

There are decorations in the shop windows that glisten silver and gold in the illumination cast by the local streetlight. Tinsel rustles around wood and brass with an unfathomable breeze. It’s a sodding Christmas miracle and it makes Gene’s blood boil. It’s the middle of November, for God’s sake. It’s one shop in a row of others that remain obstinately and consolingly barren of all festive cheer, but it still manages to annoy him. The year is getting increasingly shorter because the pricks in retail decide to advertise and push their merchandise on the unsuspecting public earlier than common decency should allow. This is only the beginning, Gene knows and hates it, passionately. Then he sees something in the window, something that arrests his attention and makes him wonder when the shop’s open. Damn it to hell, he’s been suckered in like all the other sorry tosspots.

He wakes up earlier than he usually would the next day and proves it.

He’s at the community centre, painting a base coat on the wall outside as preparation for a mural, when Sam arrives for his weekly boxing session. He’d shrugged when Gene had asked him why he was still bothering, and said it was something he liked to do for himself as opposed to anything else, which had warmed Gene in ways he hadn’t expected. Carlton, apparently, does all in his power to avoid him, but Sam wants to stay alert. The bruises and cuts and swelling have all disappeared, but the determination, that remains. Sam stands watching Gene for a couple of minutes, leaning against a lamppost.

Gene pauses his movements for a second. “Is there a reason you’re gawking?”

“I have nothing else to do and you’re right there.”

Gene won’t accept that as a valid answer. He points with an accusatory finger. “Make yourself useful. Grab a roller and help.”

He’s not generally one to think much about it. Purposely works so hard he won’t have to, but standing alongside Sam, noting that he’s being glanced at periodically, he finds himself wondering what exactly Sam sees in him. He just about understands the hero worship, can see how they get along, but Sam often looks at him, like it’s his favourite past-time. Gene’s never had any illusions about his relative beauty in the grand scheme of things. There was a time he was all muscle, but now he’s far from it. There was a time his skin was smoother, but it was never smooth. He’s not been what anyone would call conventional in anything, but especially not conventionally handsome. He’s won his fair share of hearts, been entangled in several fierce mutual attractions, but he knows he’s not a pretty picture --- he wouldn’t want to be. He can’t help but be confused by Sam’s attentions. Confused and guiltily gratified, because he revels in it, really. As with everything in their relationship, he’s getting used to it to the point he notices when it’s not there.

“You’ve missed a spot,” he says, stabbing towards the paint-free sliver of wall directly before Sam with his roller.

“That was deliberate,” Sam replies, and Gene would almost believe him if he could see any reason for it.

He covers it over with his own roller and meets Sam’s as it sweeps up, at which point they get into a miniature paint war that results in a splash of bright blue over Sam’s nose and paint all down Gene’s arm.

Sam gives him the once over and bursts out laughing.

“You’re a git,” Gene states, emphatically.

“You’re a smurf.”

“A what?”

“You know, little blue guy? Mortal enemy of Gargamel?”

Gene tries to follow, but can’t. He presumes it’s a kids show of some sort and decides to mock accordingly. “You need to go home, Sam.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow. “Why?”

Gene can tell he’s waiting for the punch-line and delivers accordingly. “You’ve clearly forgotten to wear your short pants today. Run along and kit up, can’t be seen as an adult.”

Sam gives a smile that is positively evil and swipes Gene with another roll of blue, this time up his front. Gene lunges to retaliate, but Roger’s voice comes from the open hall door.

“Sam, stop arsing about and get in here for your lesson. I’ve not got all day and you have combinations to practice.”

Sam spins on his heel and waves goodbye, casting his gaze over Gene and giving a smug and gleeful smirk. Gene watches him go, then turns back to his painting. He’s going to have to concentrate on this, or he’ll spend the next hour wondering how he ever let this situation spiral to this point; him humiliated and flustered, smiling quietly to himself. This is something he shouldn’t be allowing himself to have.

*

The next Wednesday, everyone’s working on painting their individual squares for the mural when Trisha comes to tell them Jackson’s been involved in a stabbing. She’s het up and more than halfway hysterical, her usually bouncy demeanour replaced by a skittish sense of urgency and worry. Gene feels like he’s been punched in the gut already, but it gets worse when she says, “and d’you know what? Sam was there. As a cop.” Trisha glares at Gene and it’s obvious she sees this as the ultimate betrayal.

“What do you mean… dressed up-like?” Tyrone asks, which Gene reflects is the sort of thing he would ask, because he’s thick as two short planks.

“As in he’s an actual copper,” Trisha clarifies. “With a helmet and everything. Right, Oink?”

“What does it matter if he is?” Gene asks, using the tone he’s cultivated over decades to sound casual and menacing all at once.

“He’s been spying on us, hasn’t he?”

“No, he’s been having boxing lessons.”

Trisha looks disbelieving. “This were the only place?”

“Yeah, brainiac. It was either here or at the coliseum, he just couldn’t choose,” Gene says scathingly, before remembering he’s talking to teenagers. “It’s a simple case of convenience. No one thought it’d be important to say he gets to wear a smart blue suit and walk around for a bit of cash.”

“Maybe you should’ve,” Trisha shrieks, “’cause when Jackson saw him, he went nuts, and now he’s going away for a long time.”

“How nuts did he go?” Gene asks, heart leaping about his chest like a firecracker.

“I dunno, I just heard they’re all at the hospital. Jackson, Billy Bryant, who he was facing off against, and the cops.”

“Shit, you say this sort of thing first, Patricia. Which hospital?”

Trisha tells him, but only if he agrees to take her and Tyrone, and he’s too wound up to disagree. She spends most of the journey to the hospital coming up with nightmare scenarios, Tyrone occasionally interjects to make them worse, and Gene floors it, because everything they think they know is imprecise, and he’s got a cold, dark pit in his stomach. Doesn’t seem to matter which decade it is, Sam bastard Tyler still makes him worry every day of the week. If he’s not getting kidnapped or nearly shot in the head, he’s having the shit kicked out of him or getting stabbed. Bloody typical.

It takes far too long to get the hospital, and Gene’s regulating his breathing best he can when he finally pulls up outside, not giving a shit whether parking’s allowed or not. He storms into the hospital and thinks about shaking down a few nurses, then finds he doesn’t have to, because Sam’s right there, looking a mixture of relieved and harrowed.

The first thing Sam says is, “should you really be here?”

His next words are muffled because Gene wraps him up in a hug he doesn’t care about anyone seeing. It turns out no one’s interested anyway, because Trisha’s tried to get into A&E. Sam stares at him, shocked and intense, before they’re all distracted by the nurses and doctors pushing a kicking and screaming Trisha towards Sam and the other young Bobby with him.

“Sort this girl out, would you?” a coarse, burly and frankly frightening male nurse begs, before disappearing in the opposite direction. Sam seems to believe this request is directed at him and immediately starts attempting to calm Trisha down.

Gene hasn’t seen Sam in action before. He’s suspected, but hasn’t exactly known whether he’s any good. And he is --- he’s calming and gentle and reassuring. It’s like he grows twenty years older with a click of his fingers. Compared to the other Bobby, who spends his entire time twitching nervously, Sam’s a master. It’s hard to think that he has his own problems and flaws when he’s explaining to Trisha in modulated tones what’s going on with Jackson and giving advice to Tyrone on how best to soothe Trisha further.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s nodded for Gene to join him as he goes and gets tea from the God-awful vending machine in the corner of the room.

“Jackson’s in a lot of trouble,” he says, piercing at the buttons of the machine like they’ve done him a great injustice.

“What happened?”

“Did you know that Jackson has a sister?’

“Tamara, isn’t it? Older.”

“She’s mixed up with some very nasty blokes like Billy Bryant. Drugs, petty theft, you know the drill.” Sam hands Gene two styrofoam cups, sets up two more. “Far as I can make out, Jackson was trying to buy his sister’s freedom, but Bryant wasn’t having any of it. When Thomas and I appeared on the scene, Jackson panicked. And I think what was self-defence became essentially a hostage situation, in which both Jackson and Bryant came out the worse for wear. Medically, they’re neither of them that damaged, but legally? It really doesn’t look good, Gene.”

They stay at the hospital another two hours until both Jackson and Bryant are released. Back up arrives and Sam escorts Jackson, chatting to him like he normally would at the community hall. Jackson looks like a different kid; not the arrogant, brash mouthy youth Gene’s used to, but hollowed out and scared. When Sam lets Trisha give him a hug, he looks like he might even cry. Gene drives Trisha and Tyrone to their homes, then goes back to his.

He isn’t all that surprised when three hours later there’s a knock on his door and Sam’s there looking worn out and in need of succour. He hands Sam a scotch and for once, Sam drinks it, not in small sips, but one great big gulp that obviously stings and makes his eyes water. Gene pours him another measure.

“I made it worse,” Sam says after a while. “I thought seeing a familiar face would reassure Jackson, but he went ballistic.”

“That happens.”

“He wouldn’t listen to reason. Not a thing I said at the time seemed to get through to him. It was like he was incapable of rational thought.”

Gene pats Sam on the thigh. “It’s in his blood, isn’t it?”

Sam frowns. “What d’you mean?”

“Violence, lack of control. Can’t help himself. He can’t be blamed for his actions when he’s just doing what anyone like him would do.”

“Like him? Young?”

“You’ve looked at Jackson recently, yeah?”

Sam’s eyes widen and he looks like he’s got a golf ball stuck in his throat. It would be comical, except that it starts to nag at Gene’s insides and warning lights begin to flash. He thinks he should shut up now, quit whilst he’s ahead, but the stubborn part of him that’s been his best friend and worst enemy since he was a lad won’t let him.

“Are you suggesting that Jackson went off the rails because he’s black?”

“I’m hardly talking about his fashion sense, am I? Though I expect the two intertwine.”

Sam now looks positively apoplectic. “You can’t really believe that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s reductive, and frankly, fucking racist.”

“Everything’s racist these days. If it’s not racist it’s sexist, if it’s not sexist it’s classist, if it’s not classist it’s racist and sexist combined. Can’t say a word without someone getting their knickers in a twist.”

Sam stands, moving towards the door, something like horror etched in his features. “Can you actually hear yourself?”

“You’ve always known I’m the opposite of nice,” Gene says, “why’s this any worse than anything else I’ve ever said?”

“I’ve never thought you were serious before.”

Gene gives a soft snort. “Shows how much you know.”

“Are you truly, honestly, not yanking my leg, Gene?”

There’s nothing Gene hates more than feeling like he’s disappointed or failed Sam just by the simple act of being himself. He wants to lie, wants to say that no, of course, none of this ever entered his mind, that he’s saying all of this to get a rise --- but the truth is more complex than that. Because partly he’s saying this because he refuses to back down, but also because he knows it’s right, in his gut.

It’s not popular opinion any more, you can get spat on and compared to the BNP for daring to allude to it, but humans at their core are base animals who rely upon urges and instincts, and you can’t get closer to that than a culture where there are still tribes making loincloths out of skins and throwing spears --- none of it’s been refined and worn away over centuries of civilisation; the deep, dark depths of humanity are all raw and on the surface. Jackson comes from that background, not entirely, Gene’ll admit that, but like he’s said, it’s still there in his blood. Inescapable. He feels an affinity with that, thinks maybe it’s the way all humans are meant to be, but won’t allow themselves.

He decides to be flippant. That way, Sam can decide for himself how much truth there is in his words. “I’d never do such a thing, your leg’d likely snap in half and brain me, and then where would we be?”

Sam looks like he’s going to throw up. Took it all as gospel, then.

“I thought you’d’ve grown out of bigotry. Thought you would’ve been wiser, smarter. Shame on me.”

The words cut through the air like a garrotte through flesh, and within a second, Sam’s out the door.

Gene stares at his scotch and has absolutely no idea how to react. Confusion slams into him like a lorry. He’s angry, but he doesn’t know who at. Sam for being an overly sensitive dick, or himself for not realising Sam’s too immature to accept there are points of view that differ from his own. He didn’t expect Sam to agree with him necessarily, doesn’t think they could ever see eye to eye on these sorts of issues, they never did before. Actually, just considering that, he wonders why he said it at all. He should have known this would be the reaction, at least on a smaller scale. And he did know, when he thinks further, was counting on it. It was just --- he had been expecting a roll of the eyes and a slight rebuke, not complete and utter abandonment. He swallows his scotch, drinks Sam’s, then goes for the bottle once more.

*

He doesn’t see Sam after that. Every day he thinks, ‘this is the day Sam will turn up to be a considerable pain in my neck’, and every day he’s wrong. He thinks about it constantly and drives himself crazy with what he could and should have done differently. Seems unfair that he should have finally driven Sam away due to overestimating how truthful he could be. He remembers the look in Sam’s eyes. Not wonderment, or affection, or even anger, but disgust, revulsion that he should be so near to a man like Gene.

And he keeps telling himself that Sam’s an idiot, who knows nothing of the world, and hasn’t the ability to see past his own nose --- that he should be glad to be rid of the little shit because he was nothing but trouble and life’s easier now, but none of those words stop him from feeling torn up and reordered into a scramble that makes no sense.

He throws himself into work to stop speculating, reliving, torturing himself, and the first thing he works on is ensuring Jackson gets all of the legal assistance he needs. He organises a fundraiser through the community centre as well as putting his own money towards a solicitor and a barrister. Jackson’s going to need all the help he can get and Gene’s going to give it all his power. He arranges for Jackson’s family and friends to see him and expects he’ll see Sam then, but doesn’t, though Sam has apparently been to see Jackson.

Christmas comes and goes. So does New Year's. Suddenly, it’s 1989 and Gene spends his days working like a dog and his nights avoiding thinking. He goes through his Glenlivet quicker than he had been. Resorts to cheaper brands when the mood strikes. 4.20 am becomes a time he sees regularly. Sees and detests. Usually, he’s had an hour of reminiscing by this point, visualising the colour of Sam’s eyes when he glares, the angle of his cheekbones when he grins. He’s been through memorable conversations and changed their direction to better suit him.

He’s thought about apologising, but always come up against a wall, because he has nothing to apologise for.

It’s how he first felt when Sam died. Every day is spent saying or doing something that reminds him with a painful jab of what he’s missing. He wakes up just when he thinks he’s finally got to sleep. Reaches out to say or do something to thin air. He should never have opened himself up to this kind of pain, but he did, like a prize fool, because he’s weak. Weak and stupid and alone again, naturally. And all because of what? Some words? But it’s not just words, is it, it’s a whole way of looking at the world and Sam is young and thinks he knows everything.

One night, Gene comes to the horrible realisation that he feels like he’s lost yet another piece of himself. That he doesn’t know who he is any more, without Sam in his life.

It’s a bitingly cold mid-January night that’s been warmed to toasted with plenty of scotch that sees Gene deciding to tell Sam exactly how little he knows. He thought, he really had, that Sam would have come back by now, but he hasn’t, so finally Gene has to surrender and go to him.

He knocks on Sam’s door and waits. Knocks harder. Sam opens after another minute. He’s sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed. It’s past 2.00 am, so this isn’t a shock. He doesn’t look all that annoyed to see Gene, which is.

“Of the two of us,” Gene starts, “I was the one who was making allowances you weren’t prepared to make. I was the one who was being kind. What does that say about you?”

“This isn’t the time for this conversation,” Sam says. “Come back in the morning when you’re sober and I’m awake.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Gene states vigorously, and then sicks up all over Sam’s bare feet. He’s just compos mentis enough to realise it isn’t his finest hour.

*

His head drums the first ten seconds of Copacabana on repeat seventeen times before he can finally find it within him to open his eyes. When he does open his eyes, he wishes he hadn’t. Sam gives him some water and a grease-filled bacon butty, and in that moment, Gene thinks there are no words that truly express what he feels for him.

“I was going to come see you today,” Sam says, matter-of-factly. “You beat me to it.”

“Coming to tell me what a very naughty boy you think I am?” Gene asks, because he’s feeling vulnerable and the best way to counteract that is to seem superior. “And how magnanimous you are to forgive me?”

“Coming to see if we could patch our friendship up,” Sam says, not rising to the bait. “I miss you.”

“If you hadn’t gone flying off the rails, there’d be no missing to be had. I could’ve given you your Christmas present.”

Gene rummages in his pocket and tosses a small rectangle of gift-wrapping over. Sam looks at it for a second, then back at Gene. Gene thinks he might be sick again, attributing it to his failure to take another bite of bacon butty.

“I’d’ve punched you in the head if I’d stayed another second,” Sam says, as if this should be expected, as if it would be fully warranted.

He opens up the wrapping and stares at the polaroid within.

“The real thing’s at my place, whenever you wanna pick it up,” Gene says.

The real thing is a Tyler electric guitar, the musical equivalent of a Bugatti. High-end, hideously expensive, individually custom-built; a joy to look at, with ‘Tyler’ etched into the head-stock.

“Some days, I don’t know how I could possibly like you,” Sam says, his jaw working. “And then you go and do things that remind me.”

“Thought you’d like it.”

“I don’t mean the present, Gene. I mean what you did for Jackson. He’s told me, everything. Jackson’s going to be okay, his potential sentence has been reduced and he has good legal support. That was all you. I don’t understand how you could be such a contradiction. That’s why I had to stop seeing you for a while --- not because I was angry, but because I’m always so confused. How can you be such a bastard one second and a teddy bear the next?”

“I take offence. I am not a teddy bear,” Gene says, only half joking. “Look, Sam, sometimes it’s hard to let go of things you’ve thought you’ve known your whole life. Even if everyone around you tells you you’re wrong. It’s ingrained.”

“So, what? Even though you’re aware you’re a small-minded prick, you’ve no idea how to be any other way?”

“If you wanna be crude about it? Yeah.”

“You mean to tell me you’ve never changed your mind or your opinion given further evidence?”

“Of course I have. But you’re gonna wanna punch me for this --- I’ve not been given enough evidence here that I’m wrong.”

Sam’s brows knit together, his fingers curl into his palms. “Fuck, Gene, can’t you see that it’s exactly your kind of thinking that perpetuates most of society’s ills?”

“I’m one man out of millions. Can’t you see that? Changing my mind won’t change the world.”

Sam concedes this with a flick of his hand. He looks at Gene steadily. No disgust. Plenty of affection. Gene can’t and won’t articulate to himself how much of a relief that expression is. “There’s an allure in being the one to bring reform to a flawed character.”

“That’s dangerous, that is. You should never want to be with a man simply for the potential in changing him.”

Sam’s head dips and he goes so far as to smile. “That’s not the sole reason.” He appears to reconsider his words, head tilting the right. “It’s not really a reason at all.”

Sam takes another look at the polaroid, rubbing his thumb along the edge of the photograph as if he wants to rub the guitar.

“I’m not gonna apologise to you,” he says after a moment. “I don’t think I’m in the wrong.”

“Me either.”

“I thought as much. So it’s a stalemate.”

“If this is a game to you, yeah.”

Sam lets out a deep, shuddering breath. “This isn’t a game to me.” He looks at his watch, gives himself a second opinion via the clock on the wall. “I have a shift in twenty. I’ll come round tomorrow to pick up the guitar and drop off your present, alright?”

Gene is a second from saying it’s more than alright before he stops himself. He says, “if you must,” instead, with a jovial tone that he hopes translates.

Sam places his hand, very carefully, on Gene’s shoulder. He speaks with quiet authority. “In the meantime, take care of yourself.”

Gene ignores his words and concentrates only on their point of contact.

*

A face that Gene hasn’t seen for going on three years comes into Gene’s line of sight the next day, as he’s buying a loaf of bread from the corner shop down the road. He starts embarrassingly when he sees it, then drags its owner into a bear hug. Ray chuckles, then gasps, then says, ‘steady on, Guv, I’ll expire at this rate.’

Ray looks older, which Gene wouldn’t have been surprised about if he’d given it any thought. He’s lost more hair and gained more weight, but he’s not so different he’s unrecognisable. His eyes twinkle bluer, offset by the grey at his temples, and it gives the impression he’s a kinder person now, which Gene might believe if he didn’t know all the things they’d done together.

“I heard you’d moved back,” Ray says. “Kept expecting my house-warming party invitation, but it never came.”

“I’ve been busy,” Gene says, feeling a little guilty, but not disconsolate.

He has been busy and there isn’t a Ray-shaped hole in his life, especially not when he couldn’t easily manage close friendship with both Ray and the alternative version of a man who’s long been dead. There’s no explaining that, he won’t even attempt it. If Sam thinks Gene’s mind is small, well, Ray’s is microscopic.

“Too busy for dinner with me and Doreen?”

“Depends. Would it be Doreen cooking?”

“Naturally.”

“Much too busy, then, sorry Ray. Snowed in, you know how it is.”

Ray punches him playfully on the arm, grins wide. “It’s so good to see you, Guv. Things were never the same when I came back. I even miss London, sometimes.”

“What’s there to miss?” Gene asks, genuinely confused. He hasn’t given London a second thought.

Ray goes wistful. “Bars. Beauties. Bachelorhood.” He gathers himself and turns his attention back to Gene. “Why don’t we grab a couple of beers and go over it again?”

The idea isn’t unappealing. It has to be said, he’s spent too much time over the last few years thinking about the bad times, but there were good. Ray has always been entertaining, even if he hasn’t always been the brightest spark. Gene readily agrees and they spend a pleasant few hours together recollecting, playing a game of one-upmanship with anecdotes. Ray tells Gene about his retirement plans. Gene’s tight-lipped about what he’s been up to.

Eventually, after five beers and many unsightly rounds of sniggering, Gene makes his excuses so he’ll be home in time for Sam.

Sam never turns up.

*

Sam doesn’t appear the next day, the day after that, or the day after that, and eventually Gene loses patience and goes to Sam’s. Sam about slams the door in his face and Gene has to force his way inside the flat.

He’s confused. He thought they’d sorted out their argument. It had appeared to him that they were back to equilibrium, out of their rut. Sam’s obvious anger and avoidance makes no sense to him.

Gene advances on Sam. “Where’ve you been? You were meant to come pick up your guitar. You were meant to be giving me my present. I’ve been waiting and you’ve been nowhere in sight. It’s tiresome.”

Sam’s cold and harsh as he tries to pull his arm away. “Didn’t think you’d miss my presence.”

“Why the hell not?”

“I saw you. With him. You looked occupied.”

“Him? Which him?” Gene asks, thinking this conversation may have gone on a tangent he can’t traverse.

“Your lover.”

“Lover? I don’t have a lover. I haven’t had a lover in years.”

“Oh, please, don’t give me that. You were there; laughing, touching, hugging.”

It dawns on Gene who Sam’s talking about as soon as he gets to ‘hugging’. It dawns on Gene and it takes all of his willpower not to burst out in hysterical tears of mirth.

“That was Ray. We used to work together. You’re jealous? You’re actually jealous?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I thought we were, you know, and yet, there you were, your arms all over some bastard.”

“He’s an old friend.”

“Oh, is that what you’re calling him? Very touchy-feely old friend. A lot of how’s-your-fathering going on by the looks of things.”

The very thought of that almost brings a shudder down Gene’s spine, but the ludicrousness of it is what gets to him most. That Sam thinks there could ever be a universe where he’d want Ray instead. Maybe there could, but it isn’t this one, not by a long-shot.

“No there wasn’t, there definitely wasn’t any how’s-your-father. Ray would sooner have me lynched than that and I assure you, he’s never aroused in me anything but mild disappointment.”

Sam hesitates in continuing his tirade. “Really?”

Gene can’t contain his exasperation. “Of course really.”

“Right. Good.”

Gene goes to move away, but finds his feet rooted to the spot and his mouth opening and speaking before he can stop it. “Why do you care?”

“Why do I care? Because if I can’t have you, I sure as shit don’t want some balding tosser with a creepy moustache having you, that’s why. Because I can’t handle seeing someone else standing where I want to, by your side. Because I lo---”

Gene interjects, fingernails digging painfully into his palms. “Jesus, Sam. I thought you’d got over all that, I thought I’d knocked it out of you. I’m not anything special, not a myth, not a legend. I’m just me; frequently a dick and not at all repentant. You know this by now.”

Sam stares, eyes wide and wondering, and seems to see something Gene wasn’t intending him to see. “You were going for familiarity breeds contempt?” he asks. “You did a terrible job.” He steps forward, cups the back of Gene’s neck, looks at him with such longing, it twists Gene’s insides. “I know you’re not perfect, but I still think you’re extraordinary. And I… I want ---”

Gene wants to fling Sam’s hand off, wants to tell him to stop being such a div, should really do both those things and more --- but he can’t, he just can’t any more.

He stays still and doesn’t resist as Sam presses a kiss to his lips. It’s every bit as horribly perfect as their first kiss and Gene has no urge, none at all, to push Sam away.


	10. still don't know what i was waiting for

Sam licks into his mouth with a fervour that ordinarily couldn’t be matched --- but Gene has needed this for so long now, he’s every bit as passionate, and every bit as uncoordinated. They’re not graceful or elegant in how they tangle up together, but fever gets in the way of finesse, and Gene can’t say he rightly cares. Sam’s mouth is hot and wet and still nothing like Gene remembers; all tenderness one minute, ferocity the next. Gene’s hands automatically cradle Sam closer, one at the back of his head, the other in the small of his back. He presses his length against him and hisses with the contact between them. This is it, this is finally it.

Gene can think of at least nine different reasons as to why he shouldn’t be doing everything he is doing at this moment. More than six of them relate to Sam’s well-being. He’s willing to concede that a couple relate to his own. There are good reasons he’s been resisting so long and none of them have diminished. But as Sam glides a hand down, hooking under the back of his waistband, none of them matter. All that matter are Sam’s finger-tips soft and sensual against his skin, making his fine hairs stand on end as those fingers apply the barest amount of pressure to parts of him that feel like they’ve never been touched.

There’s something reverent in the way Sam touches him. Worshipful. Like Gene might shatter if he presses him the wrong way, might blow away if he breathes too hard. Sam pulls away from kisses and stares at him, eyes wild and bright, cheekbones flushed. Gene pushes his fingers deeper into the hair that curls at the nape of his neck and tugs him tight. He lets his instincts take control, no second-guessing, no hesitation, just give and take and movement. Sam’s hips roll against him, small undulating movements that build and build, until Gene has to root him to the spot, bracing him against the wall because it’s all too much too soon. He makes a warning noise that sounds more like supplication; low, choked, urgent. His body is at once overheating and chilled, rapidly shifting from temperature to temperature as Sam arches back.

He fumbles with Sam’s buttons, the plastic miniscule and seemingly deliberately cumbersome. Sam shakes his head, hardly detaching his lips from Gene as he does so, and somehow presses deeper against the wall so he creates just enough space to pull his shirt above his head. The sensation of Sam half-naked against him has Gene thinking it’s entirely possible he’s shifted from solid to liquid, his whole being transfigured.

They rut against each other as they continue to kiss, finding a rhythm. Everything is too quick and not quick enough and Gene thinks this is going to end very soon. Sam says something half-formed; syllables as opposed to words, and Gene nods without knowing what he’s agreeing to. A second later his own shirt is up over his head and Sam’s working on unfastening his trousers.

Gene stops him, pulling back to give breathing space, watching Sam as dejection and confusion play on his features. But Gene has no intention of halting this for anything longer than a minute.

“Don’t rush,” he says, stroking over Sam’s jaw.

Sam pouts, forehead creasing as he murmurs. “If I don’t rush, you’ll run away.”

“I won’t,” Gene insists. “I’m too far gone.”

And he is, he is gone as he stares at Sam’s reaction to him cupping his crotch. Wanting to gasp as Sam’s eyelids flutter and his mouth opens, lower lip glistening and pink. If it were only a physical fascination, Gene feels he could get over it, over the sheer magnetising desperation, but seeing Sam like this arouses more than his body. It’s more than sense memory, more than longing for what he’s lost. He yearns to be the one to make Sam shudder apart, to pick up the pieces and rearrange him.

Sam flexes against him, knocking his head back into the wall, pushing his lower body closer. Gene’s heart speeds up as he lowers Sam’s zip, his breathing becoming even more ragged as he pushes his hand inside the fabric of his underwear and grips Sam’s cock. Sam bites his lower lip and gives a short, cut-off sigh as Gene rubs him, momentarily dazed. He’s more than half-hard, hot and thick, and as he surges into the circle of Gene’s hand, precome begins to trickle between them. Sam wriggles and his jeans slide down his legs, his cock thickens and becomes full and swollen in Gene’s palm.

Gene focuses on applying slow, steady pressure to Sam. On drawing back to let him catch his breath before continuing to twist his hand up his length. He rests his forehead against the wall and sucks in deep breaths as Sam pants in his ear. He’s agonisingly hard himself, straining against his trousers, unconsciously rocking his hips as he pulls at Sam’s cock. He can tell Sam’s getting close, his skin’s drawing tight, and he speeds up his movements, but Sam makes a strangled gasp and slides out from under him.

“What’re you...?” Gene starts to ask before Sam presses him into the wall by his shoulder and tugs his trousers off his hips with both hands.

Gene can’t do anything but scrabble at the wallpaper as Sam drops to his knees and takes him in his sinfully hot mouth. He thinks he may now be nothing more than vapour, intangible and scattering in the air. Sam’s not practiced, but he’s enthusiastic, licking up Gene’s cock before sucking on his head. He wraps his hand tightly at the base and takes the cock deep to the back of his throat, looking up at Gene as he tongues him. Gene shudders and rests his weight against the wall, pushing one hand into Sam’s hair and guiding him. He takes several shallow breaths, attempting to calm himself, prolong the inevitable.

Sam looks so happy to be there at Gene’s feet, jaw tilted up, Gene’s cock in his mouth. He stares up at Gene with dark, tense flames burning in his sherry-tinted eyes. Sam finds a pace that is at once perfection and torture and Gene can’t fathom why he’s been denying himself this for so long. Every objection ever mounted seems pointless against Sam’s lips wrapped around him, Sam’s look of devotion, Sam wanting to be everything to him like he wants to be everything to Sam.

His baser instincts take control and he holds Sam’s head fast as he rocks into him. Sam doesn’t seem to mind, if anything he loves it, eyes flickering closed and blush stretching over the pale arch of his neck and shoulders. Gene doesn’t know how he’s already lasted this long, but then Sam adds a corkscrew action to his sucking and he can tell it’s all over. Sam only has to stroke him twice more before he’s making a warning sound for Sam to pull off. This doesn’t happen. Gene comes, hard and blinding, and Sam takes it all, throat working as he sucks him down.

His cock is oversensitive as Sam laps at him, and he scrabbles to push away. Sam mercifully stops, gazing up at Gene reverently again as he strokes his own cock rapidly. He comes a short time later, spurting high into the air in three long jets. He goes to rest his head against Gene’s thigh, but Gene can’t stand up any longer and he slumps into a puddle on the floor. Sam collapses against him, head tight in the crook of his neck and shoulder, dissolving into soft, warm chuckles as Gene attempts to extricate his legs from a tangle of shoes and hastily shoved down trousers. Gene chances a look at him; his eyes glinting mischievously, his hair mussed and his lips soft in relaxation. Gene can’t resist temptation and pulls him into another kiss, delving into Sam and tasting himself.

Sam kisses him back with youthful intensity, all quick breaths and clashing teeth. Still not quite getting the right angle. Still desperate and beseeching. He rises up against Gene and settles over him, cock half-hard as it presses between their abdomens. His thighs are tight and over-heated against the outside of Gene’s, buttocks firm as Gene holds him. His body is in a sheen of sweat, glistening in the meagre sunshine that filters through the curtains of the window. Sam’s St. Christopher is warm as it swings between them, catching the light. Gene thinks he should feel physically incapable, at least for another hour, but he notices there’s a twitch of interest from the part of him that he suspects chucked away the restraints he had firmly clasped around his self-will. He rocks up to meet Sam’s movements; incremental, staggered, almost lazy.

“You’re obscene, you are,” he murmurs between kisses, slipping his fingers along the cleft of Sam’s arse. “Rubbing one off on me like some kind of animal.” Sam ceases shifting, searching his face. “I didn’t say stop,” Gene admonishes, nipping at Sam’s collarbone, stark and angular under pale, smooth skin.

Sam strokes them back to full hardness, until it’s damn near painful, slick and hot and so very close. He makes a greedy, covetous sound, eager as he rolls his thumb over the head of Gene’s cock. Gene continues exploring his arse, gentle as he slides the pad of his middle finger over Sam’s hole. Sam cants his hips and shudders, coming in a split second, eyes wide and shocked. Gene uses the mess between them to soothe the friction as he slides up and crashes down, belly and cock wet. It doesn’t take long for the sensation to pull him over the edge and he thumps his head as he trembles through the aftershocks of the kind of orgasm he hasn’t had in years; one that’s too soon after the force of another, and is somehow more powerful because of it.

As if to prove Gene’s earlier point about obscenity, Sam scoops up some of their come and takes a luxurious lick of his fingers. He offers his hand with a quirked eyebrow, challenging Gene, constantly challenging, and hisses as Gene takes the bait. Gene sucks in Sam’s fingers, spreading his lips wide as he tastes.

Afterwards, after they’re cleaned up and dressed, an equal measure of awkward and matter of fact as they swipe damp cloths over themselves and tie up shoelaces, Gene realises he’s not feeling as regretful as he thinks he should. Mostly, he feels gratified, fortunate, affectionate. He cups Sam’s jaw again and kisses him, not letting it become sloppy and uncontrolled, but instead deliberate and measured. He pats Sam’s cheek and shuffles backwards towards the door.

“What was I like, in comparison?” Sam asks, and he tries to mask his vulnerability, but it’s there in the tightness of his blush-kissed lips, in how the rest of him looks bloodless.

Gene halts, frowns. “In comparison with what?”

“With the man you loved. The one I remind you of. Better? Worse? Did it make you feel nostalgic?”

Gene ruminates on this subject for a while and decides to lie. “One of these days, Sam, you’ll learn not to say stupid shit to get a rise out of people, and then everyone shall rejoice.”

“I’m genuinely curious.”

“I wasn’t keeping score.” Gene moves forward again, tangles his hand into Sam’s hair and kisses the corner of his mouth. He holds him for a moment. “You can’t be jealous of a dead man.”

“I can and clearly will.”

“Don’t. I’m off to the centre. See you in a few hours? We’ll have dinner.”

Gene doesn’t wait for Sam’s response before he clatters out the door, heading immediately in the wrong direction before correcting himself.

*

Gene thinks about it on his way to the community centre. Sam’s question. He thinks about the implications and the concealed truths that are slowly uncovered. He hasn’t thought about what he and Sam had for a good long while now. Hasn’t made many overt comparisons. Assumptions, plenty of those, based on what he thought he knew, but not comparisons. He hasn’t reminisced about Sam as he once was for months and can’t think of him as ‘his Sam’ at all; that would suggest that this Sam isn’t, and… it’s all too confounding, but it feels like betrayal.

He’s moved on. In a truly fucked-up sort of way, he’s finally got over losing Sam by gaining another. And it isn’t like he’s a replacement, not like he fills the void. More like he’s pushed the void to the side and taken up new space, fully furnished with traces of guilt and disorder.

Sam isn’t the same. Doesn’t have the experiences to temper his responses, to dull his sharp corners. Doesn’t have the same drive, has an entirely altered capacity for understanding humanity. He’s simultaneously more manipulative and more truthful. Less guarded, less stable, suffering from greater damage despite never encountering the same levels of hallucination Sam once recounted. He isn’t the same and Gene doesn’t like him despite that, but because of it, because he is unpredictable in a completely different way and it keeps him alive.

He thinks he should have realised this before. He thinks he probably did. He hates that he can live so easily in denial.

Gene’s antsy when he reminds himself that the kids he talks to as they help him varnish donated furniture are a couple of years, in some cases a few months younger than Sam. That he could be arrested if anyone knew what they did together, because the law stipulates what they’re doing is wrong, and dammit, he should think so too. The law’s stupid, of course. And unfair. If he or Sam were female it wouldn’t apply. Sam’s an adult, he’s an adult, it shouldn’t be a problem. But it still is.

He can smell Sam on himself. He can still feel the brush of his lips. There’s a bruise forming on his hip, he knows there is, from where Sam held him fast against the wall.

He genuinely considers hopping on a train to anywhere that requires a sufficiently high distance to travel, not having packed, just having gone straight to the station, but Sam would find him, Sam always finds him, and anyway, the thought of never touching Sam again makes him ache. He’s waited so long that now he has Sam, he can’t let go, he won’t.

He’s hardly at the centre two hours before he has to go home. He can’t handle the noise and euphoria; not from the kids, not from his own pounding heart. It’s too much like being giddy and it makes him delightedly sick.

He’s only stepped a foot in his place when he realises someone else is there too. He recalls that the gnome outside was at a different angle from that he left it and there’s a clatter from the kitchen. He thunders into the room to find Sam wrestling with a colander.

He sighs dramatically, prying the stainless steel from Sam’s fingers and glaring.

“Boundaries, Sam. Learn them.”

“I reckoned it’d be less suspicious if a friend entered your house than a teenage boy loitered outside it,” Sam says, carefully. He dips his head, looks awkward in a way he never should and usually wouldn’t. “I wanted to make you dinner.”

“Why are you trying to kill me? First sex ravaged, now poisoned. It’s cruel and unusual punishment. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it.”

Sam looks up at him, calculating, surprise showing in the lines of his expression. He seems about to say something, opens his mouth to do so, thinks better of it.

“No dinner, then?”

“Not by your hand. Starving, are you?”

“Famished.”

Gene cuffs him round the head and tells him to wait as he goes to the chippy down the road. He gets three times the amount of chips he normally would, seems the safest bet. When he gets back, Sam’s made coffee and is putting the milk back in the fridge. They sit opposite one another at Gene’s small dining table-cum-additional kitchen counter, and eat directly from the newspaper.

“You don’t have to attempt to feed me every time I do something you like,” Gene says, when Sam’s got five chips wedged in his mouth and can’t quickly talk back. “I’m not Pavlov’s dog and you can’t condition me with the promise of cake. And even if you could, it wouldn’t be with what passes for cake under your unskilled hands.”

“I never offered cake,” Sam says. “I was gonna make shepherd’s pie.”

“I’m never gladder I came home early.”

“I just wanted to do something for you. So that ---“ Sam says, he casts his eyes down at the table again, snorts gently, nostrils flaring.

“I’m not going, Sam. I told you. I’m too far gone.”

Sam stares at him a second, curious and grateful, and Gene has the urge to hug him tight, kiss him tenderly, and tell him he’s a soppy git with half a brain.

“If anything, I should be the one who’s insecure,” he mocks lightly. “Now that you’ve had what you want from me, you must surely have come to realise it’s nothing special.”

It’s a lie. Gene hasn’t come so hard without being inside someone for years, hasn’t burned and wanted and become molten. He’s not so stupid to think it could have been anything less for Sam, not when he saw his expression during and after; love-sick and sated.

He expects banter and is disappointed none comes. Sam is still unsure of him, eating in lieu of talking. Minutes pass. Gene talks about the community centre, rambling about the things that happened during Sam’s prolonged absence. Sam makes non-committal sounds, never engaging further than a grunt. Gene’s frustration builds until he explodes.

“Why are you giving me the silent treatment?”

“Because history dictates that this is the part where I say something stupid and you leave,” Sam says. “I can never simply be happy.”

Gene stares up at the ceiling, counts to ten, then gathers Sam up out of his chair and into his arms, kissing the idiocy out of him.

“This is my place,” he says when he finally pulls away, close to breathless. He presses Sam against the dining table, hiking him slightly so that he’s braced. “And history isn’t destiny. Be stupid all you want, I’m gonna make you come apart.”

He flicks open the fastening to Sam’s jeans to punctuate his assertion, watching Sam’s eyes widen as he liberally covers his fingers in spit, then slides them against the tight, smooth skin between his balls and arse. Sam’s chest heaves, twice, before he exhales, shivering. Gene's decided. He's only going to use his fingers. Only fingers means no kissing, and no kissing means a lot of observation, fixating on the points where Sam’s jaw becomes slack or his cheeks hollow. Gene uses his years of experience to finger-fuck Sam to the point his eyes cross and he slumps against him, letting go of high, breathy sobs as he shatters.


	11. these children that you spit on

Sam gives as good as he gets and by the time night rolls around, Gene is wrecked. They lie in bed together, watching the light change and shadows stretch on the wall. Sam talks about work and how it isn’t everything he thought it would be, how it doesn’t seem like it ever will be in the long run. Gene rubs spirals over his torso and makes assenting noises, aware that advice would only get in the way of much needed venting. He likes listening to Sam’s voice, rolling over him in rich waves, and he’s concentrating on that, on the fact that Sam is here beside him, so he doesn’t realise Sam’s asked him anything until Sam pokes him and reiterates the question.

“Did you ever feel like this?” Sam asks, plaintive, “like maybe you were wasting everyone’s time playing at cops and robbers?”

“I never gave myself time to,” Gene admits. “Job satisfaction didn’t exist as a concept. You did what you did.”

“I think a large part of my problem is that I actually get to do very little.”

Sam frowns majestically, brows drawn tight and lip pouting. He glares at Gene, but Gene knows he isn’t the source of the expression, he’s just in the way of his train of thought. After a second, Sam gives a short huff of breath and clears his face.

“Sorry. I’m being annoying.”

Gene can’t help but chuckle at his ever-changing mood. “Yes, you are, appalling.”

But he kisses Sam again to make it clear he doesn’t mind, and Sam cranes into it, making happy little noises.

They kiss for a long time. Gene explores Sam’s body, touching and licking and sucking until Sam shakes his head, pulling Gene off, stomach muscles tensing erratically and eyes heavy-lidded.

“I can’t...” Sam says, bunching his hand into a fist. “Can’t anymore...”

But by the time morning is illuminating the room, Sam’s easing up against him, thigh thrown over Gene’s, hips working.

“Aren’t you sore?” Gene mumbles into his shoulder, joints aching and nose twitching from the smell of them; stale sweat and morning breath.

“Don’t care,” Sam says, and proceeds to speed up.

Gene anchors him, ignoring Sam’s greedy noises of protest, and lowers down until he’s peering up at Sam.

He loves the reaction he gets when he slides his tongue from the base to the tip of Sam’s cock --- quickly-staunched rutting hips, fluttering eyelashes and a smile that is sweet and dangerous.

Life is good.

*

Despite being ostensibly half Gene’s size, Sam takes up the whole of the bed. He’s like a reverse-TARDIS. He looks small and compact, but he unfolds to be larger on the outside. His arms and legs sprawl to the far reaches, until there isn’t a space Gene can go without inches of Sam pressed up against him. Sam’s breath jets against his neck, his hand is splayed on his chest, and Gene is not at all fazed by Sam lying all over him. He’s warm and hard and smooth like Gene’s best scotch, elicits the same levels of fondness and calm. He could stay here forever, but too much of a wonderful thing...

There’s more to that train of thought that Gene can’t be bothered with. Everything except enjoying Sam in the lull of life takes too much of an effort. He can’t tell if it’s the calm before the storm or the eye of the hurricane, but he’s going to appreciate it whilst he can. Everything is simple here, tangible, and that’s all that matters. Sam’s age is less a concrete barrier and more an esoteric quandary --- and he’s never cared about those. Too many syllables. Whenever he glances at Sam and feels a pang of conscience, a more insistent inner voice reminds him that by the age of nineteen he had already been halfway around the world fighting for someone else’s peace, that he had watched a man be blown in two, that he’d had blood on his hands thanks to Harry Outhwaite’s eviction from the Force and eventual suicide.

Were this a different time, were he a different man, yet another voice might have reminded him that all of that had been a lifetime ago.

“Anyone ever tell you you’d make a good mattress?” Sam asks, mid-yawn. He stretches and nestles his head closer into Gene’s neck. It tickles.

“Most people who encounter me value their lives,” Gene replies, wriggling to shift his weight just enough so that he’s comfortable, but not enough to dislodge Sam.

“You mean they’ve never had the pleasure of knowing how warm and spongy you are?”

“They’ve never had the idiocy to tell me.”

“Have there been many?” Sam asks, feigning casual so obviously, Gene wonders if it’s a double bluff.

“What do you think?”

Sam gazes up at Gene knowingly. “I think you have a strict moral code. That you’re supremely loyal. That when you love, you love deeply. You’re a right monogamist, I can see it now.”

“More of that foolish idol worship, I see. You’re wrong. I wasn’t a monogamist. Not always. You’re forgetting that I’m a man with urges.”

“You’ve been remarkably good at containing them where I’ve been concerned. I reckoned you must have always been that way.”

“You reckoned wrong.”

Sam rises up out of bed and pads to the bathroom. He doesn’t look at Gene or offer an explanation. Gene has the annoying compulsion to provide his own.

“It’s not like I went out of my way to be unfaithful,” Gene calls. “It’s like I said, I had urges. And sometimes circumstances conspire to make you see things differently than you might otherwise.”

“So, as long as you don’t see it as cheating, it’s okay, is it?” Sam asks, and he sounds hurt, like Gene’s already broken his heart.

Gene squeezes his eyes tight for a couple of seconds before standing and going into the bathroom. Sam’s about to switch on the shower, hand on the tap. His back looks sculpted, his arse pert, his legs thin but muscular. He is almost as striking from behind as he is from the front, and that’s without being able to see his beautiful mouth and ever-watchful eyes. Gene steps forward and wraps his arms around his middle. His fingers stroke against Sam’s stomach and he clumsily rests his chin on his shoulder.

“I have a history. It’s long; full of pain and joy, mistakes and victories. I’m not proud of everything I’ve done, but I regret precious little. Just because I played away before, doesn’t mean I will now. Anyway, I’m thrilled you think I could find anyone else who’d want me. Not everyone’s as generous nor blind as you.”

“It isn’t that,” Sam says. He twists the tap and the water splays over them, right in Gene’s face, until he steps back for fear of accidentally swallowing the torrent and choking.

“What is it, Sam?” Gene asks, because he refuses to be distracted.

“I come to a point where I think I know you and then it turns out I don’t. At all. I can’t predict what I’m gonna learn next. It’s so disorienting, always being wrong in some way. Not quite getting the subtleties. Building up an idea that turns out to be false.”

“You poor darling, how can your head grow big and bulbous if you’re aware you’re never right?” Gene mocks. He turns Sam around and kisses his forehead. “Look, you. We agreed I’m not perfect. I’m sorry if it disappoints you, but I can’t go back in time and change that.”

“You don’t even wish you could.”

“No point in it, not for me. I’ve a mind it’s stupid to wish to change all even if it were possible.”

The words tumble out of Sam like they’ve been threatening to for a long time. “Did you cheat on the man I remind you of? What was his name?”

“First of all --- not exactly. Second --- I’m not telling. As a bonus --- stop bringing him up.”

“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“I’ll tell you all about it after you’ve had a good scrub,” Gene insists, grabbing soap from the soapdish and rubbing it up Sam’s back. Sam grumbles for a moment, then arches into the touch, getting playful as Gene’s fingers slip.

He slowly and methodically washes Sam, gliding his hands over his muscled physique and into his hair. The damp waves curl over his fingers as he applies shampoo. He rinses Sam clean and stays still as Sam soaps him up, something close to sinister in Sam’s expression as he slides his hands up his inner thighs.

It takes a good half hour before either of them is in a fit state to leave the bathroom. Gene watches Sam as they each dress, initially doing up his buttons incorrectly due to his lack of concentration. Before long, they’re clothed and sitting in Gene’s lounge with mugs of coffee and a noticeable distance between them, as if by mutual unspoken agreement this is a discussion that must be conducted under strict regulations.

“I loved my wife deeply at first,” Gene starts, putting his mug down on the coffee table and fiddling with his cigarette packet. “We were married twelve years before the cracks began to form. We’d not been able to have children, and she refused to say, but I knew she was bitter about what I couldn’t give her. I was always at work and when I wasn’t at work, I didn’t want to talk about it so we got to a point where neither of us was willing to give the other time. There was an atmosphere between us --- it haunted everything we did. Even though I still loved who she’d been, I didn’t want to be with her as she was. And she didn’t want me either, because what I was showing her wasn’t the whole picture, and she wasn’t content with a corner.”

Gene sucks on his cigarette and lets the memories flow. The good times and the bad. The happiness and the disappointment. Sam sits and stares, not attempting to interject, which is a rare blessing, and one that Gene daren’t take for granted.

“I’d enjoy the company of a fair and accommodating lass every now and then. I’ve no doubt in my mind that the missus had her own lovers. We didn’t talk about it; we just did what we had to do, and kept together out of --- duty, I suppose. Until, finally, she couldn’t take it any more. Up and left me, went to live with her sister in Blackpool.”

Sam pushes his lips forward, contemplates this new information. “What about him?”

“Him?”

“You know who I mean.”

“My wife hadn’t yet gone by the time we got together. Though we weren’t sharing the same room. Hence the ‘not exactly’. Is that enough?”

“No. Does that mean you never cheated on him? And if not, what made him different?”

Gene rubbed his forehead, took a deep breath. “Why do I invite your curiosity? Remind me again why I encourage you?”

“I’m adorable, that’s why. So --- answers.”

“I didn’t feel the need to sleep with anyone else whilst I was with him, because we gave one another everything we needed. He was my friend as well as anything else, and he understood the pressures of work, so there was never any conflict in me wanting to spare him the horror.”

“He was a cop?” Sam asks, looking like he’s alighted on the answer to the mystery of the universe.

“I never said that.”

“But he was, wasn’t he?”

“Yes he was. And no, it still wasn’t Ray.” Gene stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table, frowning to himself. “I’ve answered your questions, now you answer mine --- do you really not enjoy being a copper?”

“I keep thinking I should, but I... I really don’t. There are moments when I feel like I’ve achieved something, but they’re few and far between. Truthfully, I’ve been thinking about packing it in for a while now.”

“Why don’t you?”

“It’d seem ungrateful, after all the trouble people have gone through to get me in the position I’m in. I don’t wanna quit on a whim. Not any more.”

“I’m gonna go see Jackson today. Feel like joining me? He’s asked after you. I think you could probably call him one of your success stories.”

“You think?”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m actually on at two, a training session at Sedgley. Sort of why I didn’t protest getting dressed,” Sam says with a rueful smile. “But I’ll come next time. It’s been a while.”

“I hope so, because it might change your mind about the good that you do.”

Sam has an expression that Gene can’t decipher. Equal parts awkward and something else, something confusing, or confused. He stands, rubs the back of his neck.

“I need to put on some other clothes. I’ll see you later?”

“I’ll be home about seven if you’d like dinner.”

“That’ll be --- edible, I trust?”

“I’ll make sure you stay as far away from the pots and pans as possible, and yeah, it won’t rot either of our guts.”

Sam kisses Gene on the cheek. It’s endearing in how naff it is, how chaste, how conventional. Gene can’t help but feel the corners of his lips curve upwards.

“Seven it is, then. Uh, have a good day.”

“Sam... you know that it’s not that I wanna lie to you?” Gene says, holding onto Sam’s arms to keep him still. “The reason I keep my cards close to my chest? I’ve always told you what I believe to be true. As much as I’ve felt able, at any rate. But there are some things that I can’t talk about.”

“I know,” Sam says, pulling away and heading towards the door. He calls over his shoulder. “One day I may even understand.”

*

Gene is far from overjoyed at having been left alone, but life must go on, it’s impossible to live in fiction forever, all good things must come to an end.

He hopes that he made the right decision in being honest with Sam. He thinks he did. It’s important he be as open as he can, because it puts them on an even level, and inequality is exactly why they shouldn’t be together. Sam’s curiosity reminds him of that. Nineteen is no longer an esoteric quandary. It signifies lack of real world experience, unfair disadvantages, immature ideals. And to load that with the things he’ll have difficulty saying, circumstances he can never explain, the people he can’t talk about --- it’s all too much. Too far, too much; everything’s surplus to requirements.

He readies himself to visit Jackson. Easier to get on with life than to muse. He’s had to cash in favours in order to see Jackson so regularly, but that’s been second nature since he was twenty. Jackson looks pleased to see him, but he also looks worse for wear; dark purpling just visible around his neck, pronounced bags under his eyes. He’s a tough kid, but he’s not invincible, and Gene knows only too well what imprisonment can do to a man. He can’t count on his fingers and toes how many of the young offenders he put away came out with more skills and determination in pursuit of crime. The system has a lot to answer for, but it’s the best system they’ve got.

“How’re you holding up?” Gene asks, nodding to the guard closest that they’re alright.

“It’s no Britannia Hotel.”

“I expect not. Smaller rats.”

Jackson gives the semblance of a smile. “Tamara came and visited me yesterday. She’s got herself a new boyfriend. He’s not like the others. He’ll take care of her.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“And Trisha came with her mum. They brought me some books, but I wasn’t allowed to keep them. Been getting lots of visitors. Lots of calls.”

Jackson says this as if it’s a burden as opposed to something to be celebrated. As if Gene’s imposing.

“Everyone cares about you,” Gene says, pointedly.

“Seems like it, doesn’t it? It’s nice, yeah? Makes me want to be proud. But it’s difficult too, right, ‘cause everyone expects so much.”

“You don’t think you deserve their expectations?”

“I’ll only let them down. Or do you think I’m the one black offender who’s gonna get out and make an honest name for himself?” Jackson says, looking close to tears, now, jaw working.

Gene thinks about the automatic assumptions he’d made when he’d heard about the incident Jackson had been involved in. How he hadn’t thought twice before blaming instinct, how he’d felt it was inevitable purely because Jackson’s black. He thinks what Sam said, about his kind of thinking perpetuating society’s ills. He doesn’t like to admit he might be wrong, especially not if it’s just to conform, but maybe Sam has a point. Jackson himself believes he isn’t good enough for second chances, and that’s not right.

He hates it when he’s forced into recognising he’s not God on earth, that he’s wrong-headed or obtuse. Sam’s such a git.

“I think,” Gene says carefully, “that it doesn’t matter what others in here will end up doing. Or what others have done before. You need to trust in yourself. Everyone else does.”

Jackson bites his nails, stares into space.

“You have come too far to give up now, young Mr Jackson. I won’t hear a word of it.”

“It’s better to die trying and all that?”

“If someone’s been harassing you, you need to tell me.” Gene leans forward, ignoring the glare from the guard opposite. “Especially if it’s someone who’s meant to be protecting you.”

“No one’s harassing me,” Jackson says, tetchily. “No more than is usual. I don’t, like, need special treatment.”

“You mightn’t need it, but that won’t stop your loved ones from giving it to you. As I said, we care. What’s happened to the cocky kid for whom butter wouldn’t melt?”

“I’m growing up.”

Gene frowns at Jackson. “Growing up doesn’t mean accepting injustice.”

“My being here isn’t injustice, Oink. I nearly killed a man.”

“There were mitigating circumstances and those who know a thing about your case know that first and foremost. Everyone --- and I do mean this --- everyone can make a mistake when pushed to the brink. Don’t think that this is your lot in life because of one error. If that were the case, I’d’ve been gaoled six times before breakfast.”

Jackson seems fit to cry again. He gestures between them. “Look at you, yeah? Then look at me. Which one of us do you think is allowed to make mistakes?”

“The both of us. You’re on remand, Jackson. You’ve not been given a death sentence. You never will be. You can and will get through this, so don’t give up hope.”

“Because when you wish upon a star dreams can come true?”

“Something like that.” Gene gazes at Jackson. “You’re gonna have to put on a brave face at your trial. Gotta be sympathetic, but if you look like you found out your girlfriend’s shacked up with Angela Rippon in pursuit of a real man, you won’t make a good impression.”

“So now you’re telling me to pretend to be happy. Brill,” Jackson says, rocking back in his chair. “Have you seen Sam recently? Trisha said he hadn’t gone to the community centre since my arrest. He didn’t say that when he came here.”

“I spoke to him this morning. He said he’d come see you soon.”

Jackson smiles, sly and mischievous. “He was angry with you. Said you were a right dickhead.”

“See what I mean about mistakes? Easily made.”

“You kissed and made up?” Jackson asks. He looks at Gene like he’s waiting for a specific response.

Gene won’t dignify him with wariness or shock. “Tongues and all.”

Jackson’s smile widens. “Your balls are massive, man. You don’t get frightened by anything, do you?”

“I get frightened,” Gene says. “And I feel guilt. Don’t think you’re alone in any of this.”

“I don’t --- that’s part of the problem. I don’t want to be a disappointment.”

“You won’t,” Gene insists. “Hamilton’s a good barrister, you have a strong case.”

Jackson raises his eyebrows. “I wish I had your faith, Oink.”

“You can borrow some any time you like.”

*

It’s twenty past seven when Sam turns up. He has a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other.

“You’re a bloody smart-alec,” Gene says, shaking his head. He pretends to close the door on Sam.

“Steady on, these aren’t for you. I’m visiting my mum tomorrow morning. Do you have a vase?”

“Do I look like the kind of man who’d keep a vase?”

Sam smirks. “There’s no safe way to answer that. Do you have a bottle?”

“I have an endless supply of bottles underneath the sink. You get one, I’ll serve the meal.”

“Tell me about Jackson in the meantime,” Sam orders.

Gene tells Sam all about it, including the line about Sam having called him a dickhead. There’s a warm and altogether cruel chuckle at that. They settle down to eat together, knees knocking under the table.

Life may not always be good, but for now, Gene’s going to enjoy what he can.


	12. immune to your consultations

It’s the small things that Gene notices. The brush of knuckles against the back of his neck after he’s described a long and tiresome day of labour; the quick, unsteady breaths Sam makes when he’s angry; the slow, quiet ones he makes when he’s content; the way he owns every piece of furniture he comes into contact with, which, judging by various comments, includes Gene himself. It’s things like the dullness in Sam’s expression when Gene asks him about work, the flutter of his eyelashes when he’s making it obvious he’s trying to get his own way. It’s how Gene’s wardrobe suddenly has six new wooden hangers, and he’s felt the need to empty one of his drawers.

It is every single time Sam smiles at him and he forgets to breathe, because apparently he’s growing younger by a year every day and currently he’s Sam’s thirteen year old boyfriend, who draws lovehearts around S & G in bright blue glitter on all available surfaces.

For a very short moment, he thinks that it’s worrying that even his unfocussed self-deprecation puts an age-rift between them. For a slightly longer, more forceful moment, he thinks it’s downright disturbing that he thinks it’s good that Sam’s the older one for a change.

In public, Sam is obviously and amusingly terrified of watching personal space and propriety. He cares about it all much more now than he ever did before. They go to the café they used to frequent every so often, and Sam sits fiddling with the sugar packets and salt shaker, ensuring his chair is set half a foot back from the table so that there’s no accidental touching.

At Gene’s house, Sam sometimes sits in his lap, straddling his thighs as he feeds him, letting Gene suck the sugar or salt or heavily-admonished-for grease straight off his fingers until they’re glistening. He touches Gene for tiny reasons, or no reason at all. He doesn’t check with Gene before reaching for objects on the table between them, doesn’t get comically wide-eyed if he trips and accidentally crashes into the trunk of Gene’s body, hands scrabbling at cotton as he fights to correct himself.

“You know I’m not going to start beating you black and blue if you make the mistake of nudging my shoulder whenever we’re within view of other people, right?” Gene says, three weeks into Sam always being so damn careful he does actually think of throttling him.

They’re at Sam’s flat, rummaging around the debris for a book Sam insists he read.

“It’s always so hard to tell with you,” Sam says, teasing, casual. He’s tossing old textbooks from a broken wicker basket into a cardboard box.

“Are you not even aware you do it?”

“Do what?”

“You know what.”

“Apparently, I don’t.”

Sam looks up at him as if he’s crazy. It’s frustrating.

“You stay as far away from me as possible as soon as an inch of either of us is subject to unfiltered sunlight. Or moonlight for that matter. Or the dirty grey of the light that makes it through heavy cloud-cover. You know, when we’re not in my place or yours, you maintain a safe two foot distance.”

“Oh, that,” Sam says. “I know I do that. That is quite deliberate.”

“Why?”

Now Sam looks at him as if he’s crazy and slow. It’s worse than frustrating. Gene reconsiders the beating and the throttling, adds in a bit of rug burn.

“In my short time on this earth I have come to a few conclusions. One of those conclusions is that, on the whole, people are homophobic arseholes.”

“It’s hardly homophobia if they’d be looking at us askance, is it?” Gene says, rolling his eyes. “This is my point. 60% of people who see us together probably think I’m your father. 30% think I’m your grandfather. The last 10% likely have it right, but they’re perverts.”

“And this is because I don’t touch you.”

“No, Sam. Because they take one look at you and wonder how they didn’t know their panties could spontaneously combust.”

“What do you want me to do, then? Ravish you by the dairy section next time we’re in Tesco’s? Snog you next to the turnips?”

“Of course not. Just don’t flinch if I tap you on the arm. Keep in mind that you never bloody cared before.”

“There was never the promise of sex before. It was all hormones and longing. Now it’s pheromones and kissing.” Sam grins, wide and daring, and Gene’s lungs stop working again. He has to prevent that from happening somehow. “I thought you’d pat me on the back for a job well done,” Sam says. “In private, naturally.”

Gene stalks across the room, tosses the book Sam was holding into the air and wraps his arms around him.

“What’re you doing?” Sam asks with a half-chuckle, half-squeak.

Gene plasters himself onto Sam, awkwardly, ensuring they’re squashed tight. “This is too close.” He says. He lets go, takes three magnificent steps back, deliberately raises his voice. “This is too far!” He moves until there’s three quarters of a foot between them, gently putting a hand on Sam’s elbow. “This is just right.”

Sam’s laughing now, eyebrows arching, full lips stretched over his teeth. He takes Gene’s hand and slips his own underneath, weaving their fingers together, clasping with a subtle, reassuring pressure.

“And this?”

“Too soppy for words,” Gene says, but he doesn’t extricate himself.

Sam looks down at the pile before them, bends and comes up with a self-satisfied smirk. “Found it!”

“Found what?”

This time, Sam’s expression is a combination of, ‘you really are crazy and slow, maybe I should get you sectioned?’ and fond. “The book we came here for.”

He passes it over with his free hand. Gene looks down. It’s Rogue Male, a book he’s read twice, because it’s about difficult decisions not taken, about the difference between meting out justice and revenge --- and because it was one of the many gifts his wife had given him when they were courting. He’d read it when they were together, going into detail about what he’d loved, sharing his enthusiasm, and he'd read it again when she’d finally left, remembering that there had been a time when they’d got along.

“I’ve read this,” Gene says, simply.

“You have? Why didn’t you say before? I described it in detail.”

“Chances are, I wasn’t listening.” Gene taps the cover, ignoring the angry snort Sam makes. He thinks through their past weeks of conversation. “Hang on. You said it was about a man wishing he’d killed Hitler.”

“It is.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It very much is.”

“It’s really not.”

“Okay, gene-ius, what’s it about?”

“It’s about the hunter being the hunted. The dictator the main character’s after probably is a parallel for Hitler, you’re not wrong there, but the story doesn’t revolve around this bloke purely wishing he’d pulled the trigger. It’s not about regretting what you didn’t do. It’s about survival. The lengths people will go to in a chase. Sophistication giving way to brute, animal necessity.” Gene goes blank-faced at the arch of Sam’s eyebrow. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re surprised I have a brain.”

“I promise that wasn’t what I was thinking,” Sam says, using the hand he’s still holding to pull Gene closer and drag him into a hug.

Sam’s fingers coil at the nape of his neck, the sharp angle of his cheekbone glances off Gene’s as he goes to suck on his earlobe. The warmth of his breath skates across Gene’s skin as he whispers, “we need to get back to yours and your inviting double bed.”

Gene slides his hand down Sam’s back and tucks it under his waistband, rubbing at the smoothness above the swell of his arse. “Or not.”

Sam kisses his jaw, then steps back, looks at Gene, assessing. He bites his lower lip, flicks his gaze up and down.

“Not,” he concludes. “Decidedly not.”

And then he pounces.

*

There are voices as he enters the house. One of them is Sam’s and the other is female. Sam’s often there without him these days, they had another key cut to save Sam putting the gnome in places it could seriously maim. But he’s never invited a friend over before. It doesn’t gel with his usual fear of discovery (which Gene had scoffed at, because, well, he does spend most nights at the house --- it would hardly be discovery.) Gene hangs up his coat and ambles into his kitchen, stopping dead in his tracks as he sees the source of the conversation.

Sitting across from Sam, holding a cup of tea, and looking for all the world like she’s from another era, is Annie. She looks at Gene with a piercing curiosity that has his throat constricting in pulses and waves.

“Sam. The lounge. Now,” he manages, voice scratching out like barbed wire.

Sam’s surprised, confused. He walks altogether too slowly out of the room and into the lounge. He glares when Gene grabs his arm and pushes him against the wall.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Gene asks, feeling heat rise up from the depths of him, betrayal roll through his mind.

“I’m talking to Annie,” Sam says, like it’s obvious. “Been listening to anecdotes for the past half hour. I never knew you used to play darts.”

“I can’t believe you did this,” Gene says, gritting his teeth afterwards for fear of shouting out his anguish.

“What?” Sam asks, “did what? Open the door? Make some tea?”

“Abuse your detective skills again?” Gene counters, “Drag Annie away from her home?”

“I didn’t,” Sam exclaims, indignant. “I’d been here twenty minutes and suddenly she appeared at the door, said you were friends from way back, and oh, hello, I must be Sam.”

“Pull the other one.”

“I didn’t do anything. Not a thing. She came of her own volition. I never even knew she existed.”

Sam’s eyes are wide, the set of his jaw angry, and he’s a little too close for comfort. He purses his lips together and waits for the response, and everything in his expression and body language says he’s telling the truth. Gene thinks he should probably apologise for blaming him.

“Right,” he says, taking a steadying breath. “Okay.”

“I’m not a total creep, you know.”

Gene raises an eyebrow. “You’ve gone to lengths before.”

“You really think I’m so unstable I’d kidnap someone just because they used to know you? And force them to tell me stories about darts tournaments? And then keep them here so I could parade them in front of you? You actually believe that’s a possibility?”

Gene thinks it must be insanity that makes him want to laugh. He eases away from Sam and touches his upper arm in place of the words his mouth seems resolute to stubbornly avoid.

“Why shouldn’t I talk to Annie, anyway?” Sam asks. “What’s the big secret?”

“There isn’t one,” Gene says. “But I would like to discuss matters with Annie privately, if you don’t mind?”

Sam balls his hands into fists, flicks his head back. “... are you kicking me out?”

“Politely requesting your absence. For a couple of hours.”

“You’re a tosser.”

“I’ll make it up, somehow,” Gene says, taking Sam’s hands and rubbing circles into their backs.

He surges forward and kisses Sam, possessive, licking deep into his warm, sweet mouth. He’s half-terrified Sam’s going to push him off and clatter out of the room, but Sam returns the kiss with vigour.

“---checking to see you haven’t murdered one anoth---“ Annie’s voice says. Gene swivels to see Annie standing in the doorway, frozen, face gone pale.

Sam goes pink to the tips of his ears. He clears his throat. “Did you, uh, want me to come at a pre-arranged time, or?” he asks, voice cracking a little.

“I’ll call,” Gene says.

Sam awkwardly makes his way past Annie, casting a worried look back in Gene’s direction. Gene gives him a reassuring shake of his head to say he’ll be fine. Judging by the tightness in Annie’s face he isn’t sure he will be, but he doesn’t want to raise alarm.

“You didn’t listen,” Annie accuses when the front door’s closed.

“Clearly,” Gene says, unsure of how to play this, if he should be supplicating or brash. He feels both in equal measure; it’s confusing.

“How long?” Annie asks now, looking at Gene like --- like she thinks he’s going to round on her and eat her bones, because it would be an amusing past-time and the least offensive thing he could do.

“A month. We’ve been friends since I last saw you, pretty much, but, yeah, a month.”

“I thought you’d left the country, I thought you’d heeded my advice, but then I saw Ray at the Lancashire Constabulary Dinner and Dance,” Annie says, still looking shell-shocked. “He said you’d had a pint together.”

“Took you a while to find me.”

“Some of us have jobs.”

Annie walks further into the room and collapses onto the sofa. She’s faint, disarranged.

“Make a song and dance of it, why don’t you?” Gene offers. “Show me how clearly I’ve offended your sensitive sensibilities.”

“I shall,” Annie retorts. “Because you’re an idiot. You realise that what you’re doing would not only be viewed as amoral by most of society, but that it’s highly illegal too?”

“Why, yes, thank you very much, Miss Cartwright, for your effortless pep talk. I may have ignored rules and regulations, but I was never ignorant of them.”

“Just as well. It’s an inexcusable defence.”

“What happened to ‘it’s not my place to say’, ‘do you think it’s wrong?’, ‘I don’t disapprove’? Not so long ago, you claimed you wouldn’t judge, you hideous hypocrite.”

Gene leans against the doorjamb and glowers.

“That was before I saw how young he was,” Annie says, strangled, angry. The lines of her face deepen, her cheeks flush.

“You knew how young he was,” Gene storms.

“As a number,” Annie says. “Not as a---“ she casts her hands around expressively.

“You know what, Puffy Pants, you can shove it,” Gene says, scowling so strongly his face crumples. His fingers are itching to curl up and his chest is aching from contained fury. “I refuse to be made to feel guilty about being with Sam. I’m trying to make it fair for the both of us, I’m not manipulating him, I don’t have any hold over him other than mutual admiration and attraction --- unlike last time, when I was his superior officer, for God’s sake, with far more pushing power if I so wished it. He wants this just as I want it, so what the hell’s wrong?”

Annie’s eyes flash. “You know what’s wrong. How truthful are you being, Gene?”

“As truthful as I can be, which is a damn sight more than most people in most relationships.”

“Don’t you care about doing what’s right?”

“I don’t know what’s right. And you don’t either. Right and truth, you use them like absolutes, Sam makes the same mistake, but there isn’t such a thing, there never has been. My ‘truth’ may not look like anything you’ve seen, so, what, it’s irreparably damaged? My concept of ‘right’ is a crippled little snot with a lisp in comparison to yours?”

He’s using her own proclamations against her, forcing her to see beyond her black and white reading of the situation. He’s trying to make her see. Annie stares at Gene, steadily.

“I’d like to say yes,” Annie says, hollow. “Because there has to be a line somewhere.”

“There is. As I said, I’ve never pushed Sam into anything. Not in any way. I promise you this.”

Gene feels so earnest he might choke. Annie’s expression begins to clear. She takes a few shuddering, bone-deep breaths.

“He’s not the same,” she says, tone growing kind. Gene decides he hates the kindness most of all.

“No, he’s not."

“I thought he would be, I couldn’t see why he’d be different,” Annie continues. “I didn’t even know that I expected th... before I met him.”

“Life has a habit of moulding you into its nooks and crannies, melting you to fit. Remove the nooks and crannies and add a few bumps, and the effect changes. Funny, that.”

“Then aren’t you doing him a disservice? Being with him because you long for what he could never be?”

“I thought that, at first,” Gene says, taking his time with the words. “I turned him away countless times for that very reason.”

“You’re saying that isn’t what this is?”

“I’m saying I don’t know what this is. It’s not some case I can go bash some heads in to solve.”

“Or gather evidence for,” Annie says, wryly.

“Any and all evidence here is circumstantial,” Gene insists. “But I’m not, I’m really not trying to take advantage.”

“I don’t think it’s deliberate,” Annie says. Her words are immediate, unthinking. “I know you didn’t engineer for it to happen. I just think you’re weak for letting it.”

“Then let me, in my twilight years, be a weak man. I spent so long pretending to be stronger than anyone could be.”

“At the cost of Sam’s life?”

Gene exhales. “Fuck. Who needs a conscience when you’re around?”

They stare at each other for a couple of long seconds. Gene feels his shoulders slump just a little, finally feeling the burden of their conversation.

“I’m sorry,” Annie says.

“What for? Accusing me of destroying a man’s life, calling me weak, or springing on me unannounced?”

“The situation.”

Gene bows his head. His chest continues to ache and his fingers continue to itch and he wonders if Annie knows what she’s talking about or whether she’s biased because he has something she can’t have. He doesn’t think that’s it, and the realisation makes his head throb. It would be so much easier if it was jealousy or spite, but it’s not. It’s the principle of the thing. Once upon a time, Annie was exactly the kind of person he kept around to help him remember such lofty aspirations. And if Annie, who had previous pledged support --- if she could see them together and come to the complete opposite conclusion about whether or not this was meant to be, he didn’t know anything.

“I love him,” Gene says, hardly above a whisper. It’s a confession he’s never intended to make. It’s a small, solid-feeling piece of him cut apart from his flesh and loosed upon the world. It hurts.

“Then everything’s going to be okay, because love’s the purest and most brilliant diamond of a star in a blackened sky,” Annie says, sarcasm making her voice thick. She looks at him sadly, until he can’t bear to look into her eyes any more.

“I’m not gonna leave him just because you’re telling me to.”

“I didn’t expect that you would. It’s too late for that now, anyway, isn’t it?”

Gene nods, changes his mind, shakes his head. “It’s not a crime.”

“It is.”

“It’s a stupid one.”

“It is,” Annie says again, but this time the intonation’s changed. She agrees. Now that the fire of her anger has cooled, she twists her lips as she looks at Gene.

“What’re you gonna do? Shop me?”

“No.”

“Yell at me some more?”

“Maybe.” Annie brushes her fringe to the side, rubs her neck. “I may have overreacted.”

Gene cocks an eyebrow. He didn’t think this admission would come so quickly. It’s emotional whiplash in a day that’s been one gigantic pile-up on the M6. He strokes his hands down his sides, flexes the cramp out of his joints.

“It was the shock,” Annie explains. She gives a strange, high-pitched giggle at that, concentrates on the carpet.

“Yeah, you were so horrified by my wayward and uncouth behaviour you lost your head,” Gene says, dry like his throat.

“I was so surprised by seeing him in the flesh, seeing those same flecks in his eyes, but none of his easy familiarity, the way he looked at you.” Annie opens her mouth a couple of times, closes it with a snap.

“I’ve had months to puzzle it through. You’ve had an hour.”

“You can forgive my confusion,” Annie says, and this time she sounds meek, apologetic.

Gene huffs angrily. “Which is it, Cartwright? Am I monster or a romantic hero?”

Annie blinks, tilts her head to the side. “Can’t you be both?”

“D’you think I am?”

Annie smiles, slow and wise. “Sometimes. But that was before I found out you were with Sam.”

“Ha-di-hah.”

“You’re not a monster. And --- you have a point. About the concept of right.”

“Glad you can see that. It was your point, if I recall correctly.”

“I still think...” Annie starts. She stops, abruptly.

“What do you think?”

Annie dismisses the question. “Never mind what I think.”

“That it won’t end well?” Gene questions. “That it’s only temporary? That it’s a mistake? That I should’ve gone when I had the chance?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Gene intones, rubbing his forehead. “I know. And yet, when I’m with him, when we’re together, none of that matters.”

There’s sympathy again, then. A small, concerned frown. Annie crosses the space between them and wraps him into a hug. He hates feeling annoyed and comforted at the same time. It only makes him more annoyed, and strangely, more comforted; because at least annoyance is an emotion he understands.

“Sam invited me to come see him play on Saturday,” Annie says, voice muffled into his shirt. “He’d been playing guitar when I knocked on the door and I asked him about it.”

“You’re not asking my permission, are you?”

“No. Informing you I intend to come.” Annie moves away, leans against the other side of the doorjamb.

“Now look who’s got the inappropriate relationship with the teenager,” Gene mocks, because it’s easier if this is a joke. Makes it both less and more real.

“Not likely. He’s only got eyes for you. He’s always only had eyes for you.”

Gene studies Annie, wonders again if ---

“No, Gene, I really didn’t continue to love Sam that way, I told you that before,” she interjects. “And you accused me of being simplistic.”

“Then why were you so angry?”

“Because --- he’s so sweet,” she says. “Like Sam could only manage occasionally. And so unfettered. It seems like the worst he can imagine is falling off stage during a gig.”

“He’s not that sweet. He can be cruel when he wants. And he has concerns. Trust me. He’s human.”

“You said he was bitter, he doesn’t seem bitter.”

“He’s not, any more. We fixed that together.”

“Huh,” Annie says; high, lilting.

Gene crosses his arms. He waits for more condemnation. Or worse, consolation. Annie brings herself upright and walks into the kitchen. She comes back with her bag.

“I’ll let you enjoy your evening in peace.”

“You’re so magnanimous.”

“Should I go to the club, or come here first on Saturday? Sam proffered both suggestions.”

Gene frowns, stares at the ceiling for a second. “Which do you prefer?”

Annie’s eyes hold altogether the wrong levels of amusement. “Here. We could grab a bite to eat. I could force you into salad.”

“Here it is, then.”

They say their goodbyes. Gene collapses against the front door when she’s gone. He wonders, now, how he’s meant to feel. Annie always had been changeable, but this is ridiculous. Hating him one second, feeling sorry for him the next. Telling him he’s wrong, admitting she might be. And insisting she’s going to stay in his life in the foreseeable future, because he has no doubt this is only the start.

He tries to muddle through what her motivations might be. Espionage. Duplicity. They all go floating around his mind. But not one makes sense. The only thing that does is remembering the friendship they’d shared. The affection they’d built. How it had all come crashing apart when Sam had died. How she’s the only other person he trusts enough to say words that sizzle and singe through his nerves like gunpowder.

*

Sam looks up a full five times during his first set. The songs he’s playing are overwrought odes to faithful devotion, and he’s dedicating every single one to him, Gene can tell. In between songs, Annie remarks on how good he is, how good they all are, how much she loves this song and that.

“It’s been an age since I went to a concert,” she says. “I used to go all the time.”

“I’ve been to more gigs in the past year than I had in my life before,” Gene confesses.

Sam comes and sits with them during the break, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he steps over, taking a massive gulp of beer immediately after sitting down.

Gene is surprised by how happy he is about Sam’s fervour. “You think you might wanna be a rockstar instead after all?”

“Instead of what?” Annie asks.

“I’m contemplating quitting the Force,” Sam answers, forthright.

“I’ve tried to convince him the world needs more cops like him, but...” Gene trails off. He shrugs. “It’s not my decision to make.”

“After the trial we were telling you about over dinner,” Sam says to Annie, spinning his glass along the tabletop. “That’s when I’ll say for certain.”

“I can’t imagine you not being a police officer,” Annie says, then realises her mistake without missing a beat and laughs, “’Course, I can’t imagine you being a police officer, either.” She raises her eyebrows at Gene as Sam looks away, as if to say, ‘how do you do it? How do you avoid incrimination?’

“He’s been threatening escape since we met,” Gene says, sardonic. Sam’s head whips around and he stares him down.

Annie picks up the tone. “Doesn’t he appreciate the rewards policing can give?”

“No sense of staying power, youth. Give up at a moment’s notice.”

“I’d’ve thought Sam would have a longer attention span. It’s such a shame.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Sam says, cutting in. “No more talking about me as if I’m not here.”

“You’re not gonna be in a couple minutes,” Gene reminds him. He leans towards Annie, talking conspiratorially. “We’ll continue this when he’s shuffling around the leads and mic stands on stage.”

“You’re both horrible human beings who increase my distrust in so-called civilised society.”

Gene takes a swig of his own beer and smirks. “I’ve always wanted to be that person for someone. I’ve been working at it my entire life.”

Annie glances at him, ducks her head forward demurely. “He’s not joking. I vividly remember his early attempts.”

“Those weren’t early.”

“No, you’d have to go back to prehistoric times to see them, Annie,” Sam chimes in. He finishes his beer, flips Gene a gesture of love and affection, and makes his way back on stage.

“It’s so strange,” Annie says when Sam’s singing back-up and strumming again, gazing towards their table. “Like listening to your favourite album underwater.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“You’ll get used to it.” Gene takes her wrist, gives it a shake. She looks at the contact, eyes widening perceptibly. He lets go and returns his hands to his side of the table, picking up his glass and drinking.

“Do you really think he’ll quit?”

“I’m beginning to think he should,” Gene says, frowning as he does so. “I’m worried I pushed him into it in the first place.” He wags a finger as Annie sits forward. “It’s too long a story to tell you at this current moment in time.”

“The trial’s in another two weeks, isn’t it?”

Gene gives an acknowledging hum.

“That’s not so long a wait.”

“It’ll zip by in an---“

Gene’s concentration is interrupted when he notices Sam moving into the centre of the stage. He gestures a question, but Sam doesn’t offer a reply.

“The next song,” the lead singer says, louder than normal, “goes out from our guitarist, Sam, to a very special person in the audience.”

Even from this distance it’s easy to see that Sam’s cheeks are flushed. His chest is rising quickly and his hands are shaking. But he plays the first chord with no problems, and starts to sing at the appropriate time.

“I was feeling done in, couldn't win, I'd only ever kissed before...”

By the time Sam gets to the main chorus of ‘toucha toucha toucha touch me, I wanna be dirty’, Gene’s peripheral vision suggests Annie’s looking at him, but he’s too busy attempting to bore a hole in Sam by dint of will alone.

“Not everything has changed, then,” Annie says, sounding both amused and bemused. She can tell it’s a message, but she doesn’t know what it’s communicating.

“Not everything,” Gene concedes. He tips his head forward in defeat, signalling a silent, ‘you win’ as Sam finishes the song and positively leers at him. “Not even close to everything.”


	13. try to change their worlds

The night before the beginning of the trial Sam doesn't sleep for longer than twenty minute stretches. Gene knows this because he doesn't manage it either, continually waking and checking his clock, realising he's only been out of it the time it takes to polish off his midday meal. He thinks it was a mistake to make so much ride on the trial, to make it the day of reckoning, but he'd suggested that already and saying it again would be pointless.

"If I weren't to decide then, I'd probably put it off," Sam had said. "I'd prevaricate and push it to the back of my mind and before I knew it I'd leave it until it was too late."

"If that's how you feel, why not decide now?"

Sam hadn't answered.

Thinking about it now, listening to Sam's steady, deep breaths and constant fidgeting, Gene reckons that there's more to this trial than Sam is letting on. He has a keen idea of what that might be, but he's wondering whether his suspicions could really be right. Sam's notions of ethics and morality aren't set in stone, yet, but there are tenets he believes in. He's not without conviction.

It's the precise nature of Sam's conviction that Gene's not sure about.

The alarm-clock states it's 5.12 am when Sam sits up and goes to put his clothes on. Gene takes hold of his waist and tugs him back.

"What're you up to?"

"Was gonna go for a walk. I need to clear my head."

"No need for walking," Gene says. "I have an alternative solution." He experimentally drags his fingers down Sam's abdomen and against his crotch. He cups Sam lightly, and smiles to himself as Sam opens his legs, allowing further access.

Sam rolls his head back. "Are you sure you're up for it?"

"Not quite, but that can change."

"I didn't intend for that to be innuendo."

"Innuendo, eh?" Gene flicks down the waistband to Sam's boxers and takes him firmly in hand.

"Oh God, don't say it," Sam begs, with a tremor of a giggle. "No more double entendres and bad puns, please."

Gene kisses Sam's shoulder and strokes his hand up Sam's cock. "Keeping your mind clear, though, isn't it?"

"As only you can manage," Sam admits.

He extricates himself from Gene's grasp and swivels on the spot so that they're face to face. It's difficult for Gene to make out Sam's features in the dull light, but the touch of fingers along his jaw line is unmistakable, so he guesses this isn't a rejection. Sam kisses him, softly, licking over his teeth and into his mouth, settling over Gene's thighs as he does so. He lost his boxers in the move, and Gene works quickly ridding him of his t-shirt, pushing his hands up under the thin material and against the searing heat of Sam's skin. It doesn't take long to get rid of the garment entirely.

Not being able to see Sam properly has Gene at once annoyed and excited. He misses being able to see the flush across his cheeks, the curve of his kiss-softened lips, but his senses are more concentrated on the tactile; Sam's kisses trailing against his neck, the pads of his fingers stuttering over his torso, the insides of his calves against the outside of Gene's legs, gently rocking. He doesn't think he'll ever get used to this, the way they touch one another, how it feels when they're pressed tight. No amount of flowery description could do it justice, and though he's been tempted, once or twice, to mockingly write odes to Sam at the height of sensation, to make a joke of it all, he doesn't think he could ever find words that adequately rival the sheer vitality of it all.

Gene pulls Sam away from his neck and kisses him full on the lips again. Every kiss is slow, deep and relaxed. Sam goes soft against him, resting more of his weight on Gene, flexing into any position he's placed. No resistance at all. Most of the time, Sam kisses Gene as if he always wants to be in control. Here he seems to want to lose himself. Each kiss gets longer between breaths, and Gene has to consciously remind himself to breathe through his nose, because he can't think of anything but Sam's tongue against his own, the wet and the heat and the need for more.

Sam shifts, eventually, climbing off Gene to sprawl by his side. He tugs Gene over shortly after.

"Will you fuck me?"

"That was the idea, yeah."

"Will you hurry?"

Gene shakes his head, nips at Sam's collarbone a couple of times before speaking. "You're always so impatient."

Sam takes hold of Gene's pyjama bottoms and pulls them down his legs, wriggling against him as he does so. "I want you."

"Not all of us are on a hair-trigger or are ready to reload at a moment's notice. Some of us have to make the most of a singular experience."

Sam whispers in Gene's ear. "Mmm, see, you say that, but I've noticed that isn't always the case."

"Fine, then," Gene says, reaching over Sam and into the top drawer of the side-table. "You want me to hurry? I can hurry." He retrieves the lube, placing it carefully on the bed. "Legs spread wide, bossy-boots."

More light is filtering into the room, enough that Gene can see Sam's grin as he does as he's told. But Sam is ever contrary, so he fights back and says, "I'm not the bossy one."

"You are," Gene says, then pouring lube onto his fingers, rethinks and admits, "we're both the bossy one."

He lowers his hand and presses a finger along Sam's crack, not yet pushing into him, but sliding twice to get him good and slick. Sam sighs and arches his hips up, the movement making Gene's finger catch against the rim of his hole. This produces a sound more akin to a grunt from Sam, and Gene can't help but want to hear that again, so he starts to move his finger in circles, teasing, dipping into him. He waits as long as he possibly can, torturing Sam, before he's compelled to pour more lube over his fingers and push up into him. He loosens him slowly, deliberately ignoring every instance where Sam indicates that he's ready for more. Sam periodically clenches around him, makes low, pleading noises, and Gene's achingly hard.

He moves until he can finger and kiss Sam at the same time, enjoying every movement and moan. When he finally lines up and rocks into Sam, it's nothing short of blissful. He thrusts gently until he's all the way in, stays there for a moment, urging himself not to tremor as Sam adjusts his position, canting his hips. The new angle is perfect and Gene can't help but surge in a little faster on his next stroke. There's always something unreal and heady about fucking Sam, confusion as to how he could be so lucky, how he could be the one who gets to watch Sam in such intimate moments. But at the same time, there's the undeniable feeling that this is exactly as everything should be, that they belong to one another.

Sex with Sam always appears to make him sentimental.

Sam clutches into his hair and rolls his lower body up, Gene quickens his pace. They find a rhythm that's just the other side of languid, perfect with the ever-burgeoning sunlight streaming through the window. Gene stares as emotion plays on Sam's face; the occasional wince, the flutter of his eyelashes, the clenching of his jaw, a contented smile. He watches him and tries to ignore how close he is, because he wants this to last.

It won't last, because Sam has taken his own cock in hand and is close to coming himself. He's clenching around Gene and breathing harshly and everything conspires to make Gene's thrusting become ragged and erratic. Sam traces lines down his side with his fingers, holds on above his hip as if for dear life. He mutters to himself, and Gene has to crane close to hear that it's mostly nonsense with the occasional, "yes, fuck" thrown in.

It only takes a few more thrusts before Sam comes, tense and shuddering beneath him, lips falling open, eyes squeezed shut. He pants, hard and choked, and Gene thinks that's what sets him off, has him coming, deep and desperate. It's the sound of Sam forgetting how to think.

*

The barrister Gene has sought to defend Jackson is a real Rumpole type; Alexander Williams, Xander to his public school chums. He has more belief in the justice system than Gene has ever had, fights exhaustively for his clients, treats Gene like he's a babe newly born, though there can't be more than seven years between them. He has a reputation for being a staunch believer in innocence before proven guilty. Gene can't say he's ever liked him or others of his ilk when they were defending crims he knew deserved to be put away for the charges laid against them, or those who confessed point blank to their horrible misdeeds, or nasty little slugs who may not have been guilty of the particular crime they were up for, but were certainly behind others. But these days he finds he much prefers Williams to the prosecution, Martin Duffie.

In his experience, attending a trial at either Magistrates or Crown Court has always been a stressful and unnecessarily pompous experience. He understands the need for it most days, but there are others, when he knows the waiting times between being arrested and going to trial are expanded year by year, when the ceremony behind it all grates, when he thinks life would be easier if the police had the final say.

He sits in the gallery waiting for proceedings to begin. It's been a good hour since he last saw Sam, and at that point, Sam had been shaking, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down at a furious pace. He's about to stand on the witness stand and Gene's heart goes out to him. It never gets easier, but the first time is always the worst. Usually the best bet is to be straight down the line, displaying no emotion, but this is Sam, and Gene doesn't know if he's capable.

Sam stands, drawing himself to his full height. He looks a lot like a kid playing dress-ups, but when he begins to answer the prosecution's questions, his tones are deep, mature and carefully controlled, and Gene's reminded how wise he can sometimes appear.

"Yourself and PC Derek Thompson were first on the scene?" the prosecution clarifies.

"We were," Sam answers.

"Talk us through the events that occurred."

"It was approximately twenty-five minutes past seven in the evening, towards the end of my shift, and PC Thompson and myself received a message from dispatch alerting us to a situation two streets over, in George Street. We travelled to the site and could hear shouting. I told PC Thompson to stay back as the argument sounded heated and I felt that the appearance of two officers would escalate matters. He said that he would contact back-up. I announced myself and walked into the alley, only to see who we would later identify as William Bryant holding a knife to Jackson Smith's throat."

As Gene had suspected would occur, Sam's words are not the truth, but there is nothing in his demeanour to suggest this. Sam had told Gene at the time that both he and Thompson ran into the alley and that Jackson had already secured the knife off Bryant. Gene can feel his fists clenching against his sides and he rocks forward in his seat, staring at Duffie in order to ascertain his reaction.

Duffie speaks with a forced, clipped tone. "William Bryant had the knife?"

"Yes."

A noise stirs in court. Gene looks over at Bryant to see him being held back by his companions.

"You're quite sure?" Duffie asks; cold, hard.

"I'm certain."

"What happened next?"

"I told Bryant to put the weapon down, he refused. I must have proved a distraction, because there was a scuffle and Smith attained control of the knife. He was in the process of heading in my direction when Bryant grabbed him from behind, hitting him forcefully in the head. Within a few seconds, Bryant had Smith on the ground. As far as I could tell it was at this time that the injuries occurred."

Duffie stares at Sam long and hard, as if willing him to crack, but Sam has managed to get his shuddering under control, because he looks calm and collected, as if he hasn't just put his life on the line.

Williams' expression remains impassive, but there's energy in his movements as he stands to cross-examine.

"In your opinion Bryant was the aggressor?"

"Yes."

"That's not ---" Gene hears from Bryant's corner, before there's silence again.

"Would you say that Jackson Smith was acting in self-defence?"

"I would."

"Thank you. No further questions."

Sam steps down and Thompson is called next. He corroborates Sam's story, to the letter, which has Gene immediately suspicious as to what Sam may hold over him. Duffie appears to get angrier and angrier, his patience wearing thin enough he begins to interject and cut Thompson off. This doesn't faze Thompson as much as Gene thought it would, though, because he reiterates his story without a flinch.

The prosecution declines from calling Bryant next, which Gene is quick to realise is a tactical error in judgement, because Williams jumps on the opportunity. Bryant does not help his case by practically frothing at the mouth when Williams calls him to the stand, setting off on a rant before he's been asked any questions.

"Them coppers be lying," he yells, pointing wildly. "It din't go down like that. He had the knife. Slashed me. Went berserk."

"What were you doing in the alley, Mr Bryant?"

"Just hanging out n' shit."

"Can you think of any reason that Jackson Smith may have wanted to attack you?"

"I had money, yeah? He was trying to rob me."

Gene watches as Jackson moves at this proclamation, but Jackson's too smart to start calling out like Bryant had.

"You have been charged with drugs possession on several occasions, is that not so?"

"That's right. This in't the first time I've been framed."

"And Tamara Smith was one of your customers."

"No way, man."

"Do you know Tamara Smith?"

"Yeah, I know her, but ---"

"Is it not true that Jackson Smith was with you in that alley to tell you to stay away from his sister?" Williams' voice rises. "Is it not also true that this is a knife that you bought on the twenty-third of November, 1987." Williams picks up the evidence bag and displays it to the court.

Bryant looks flustered. "It's my knife, but I dropped it. Jackson had it when the cops arrived. And it wasn't just the skinny one, both of them came. When Jackson saw them he went off his nut, screaming about betrayal. I tried to get my knife back and he stabbed me."

"What reason would the police have to lie?" Williams asks.

It's a risky question to pose. It doesn't take an investigative genius to discover that Sam and Jackson are friends, but given Bryant's stumbling rejoinder and Duffie's confusion, Gene's willing to bet they have no idea.

The questioning continues and Bryant digs a deeper hole for himself, allowing his anger to cloud his judgement, and his stupidity to reveal the untoward activities he embarks on. When Jackson finally takes the stand and follows in Sam's lead, the story sounds not only credible, but probable.

The closing speeches are impassioned and full of rhetoric, but Gene's surprised to find that Duffie, for all his bluster, is very much on the back-foot. Williams is charming and eloquent in comparison, and Gene knows that if he were in the jury, he'd believe every assertion he makes. It seems that Sam's plan has gone off without a hitch. Gene doesn't know why that sickens him as much as it does, but it feels all wrong, deep in the pit of his stomach.

Before long, there's a break in the proceedings in order for the jury to deliberate, and Gene is making his way outside, in desperate need of a cigarette. He's surprised to find Sam there already, leaning against the bricks of the building, mostly hidden from sight down the narrow alleyway.

"What are you up to?" he asks.

Sam starts, realises it's Gene, then gestures up. "Getting some air."

"That's not what I meant. I can't believe you. All of this is gonna come back and bite you in the arse."

"I had to do something."

"How did you get Thompson on side?"

Sam shrugs. "I paid him. He gambles too much, needs the money."

Gene examines Sam, feels anger burning hot within him. "You don't have the right to change history, Sam. Jackson didn't need you to weave some elaborate tale to get him off."

"This will help, though."

"Right. And if the prosecution point out how frequently you've visited Jackson while he's been on remand? If they provide evidence of your connection? Haven't you just made the whole situation worse?"

Sam looks altogether too sure of himself, too cocky. "They can't submit any more evidence, it's over with. Plus, it's the word of two cops against Bryant's lowlife idiocy --- who do you think people are gonna believe?"

Gene's throat tightens. "This isn't justice."

There's a scowl, and then, "You used to stitch people up, but you're criticising me for attempting to help get someone off?"

"I'm criticising because there's every chance you've ruined your life. You can't seriously think this won't be discovered. They don't take kindly to corruption nowadays, dearest Samuel, there's no such thing as a blind eye."

"You'd be surprised. And even if this were discovered, the worst that would happen is they'd call it a mistrial. Bryant's proved himself to be a grade A pillock who can't hack the pressure. There's little to no evidence. I've no doubt Jackson will still end up with a reduced sentence."

"And you'd be sacked. You could say goodbye to a stable, lifelong career."

Sam laughs, but it's an unnatural, strangled sound. He glares. "I don't want the career. Isn't that obvious yet?"

Gene looks at Sam. Really looks. He can see in everything from his pose to his expression that this is a last-ditch attempt. There's no doubt in his mind that Sam's weighed up all the flaws and the repercussions. He's not bothered if everything falls through, because that has always been plan B.

"Oh, I get it. You don't wanna give up, that doesn't strike you as fair, but sabotage, that's all well and good, because then it's in fate's hands. Nice."

Sam spreads his hands wide, theatrically, obviously mocking Gene. "Nothing wrong with leaving yourself at the mercy of God."

"Unless you don't believe in him, which, last I checked, applied to the both of us."

"You don't know that. Maybe I've changed my mind. It's allowed."

"Grow up, Sam."

"No, you shut up, you sanctimonious git. What gives you the right to tell me off for living my life the way I choose?"

"Concern for your well-being? Decades of experience?"

"I would have thought you'd want me in a less dangerous profession, if you really cared."

Gene considers this, tries to articulate for himself why he's always pushed Sam to be a cop when he's always been little more than ambivalent. He's isn't deluded enough to say the reasons are completely divorced from his experiences with the other Sam, the man he's not, but that isn't the whole story, he's sure it isn't.

"I see the potential in you. Every time I look at you I see what you could be. Fighting the fight I had to step away from."

"You can't live vicariously through me. That's not how relationships are meant to work."

"I don't, not really, but you're skilled and talented when it comes to detective work, you realise that, don't you?"

"Found you, didn't I?"

"Yeah. Hasn't it ever occurred to you that might be for a reason?"

"Maybe this is the reason."

"I don't think it is."

Sam exhales, exasperated. "But you can't see the future, so you don't know."

Gene leans heavily against the brickwork and tries to quell the knot in his stomach. He takes a few puffs of his cigarette and thinks. The person standing next to him is not the same one who once told him the role of the police was to be whiter than white. He wonders what Sam would say of his own downfall. The lines are suddenly a lot more blurred and his confusion reigns supreme. He's a hypocrite, but he's still disappointed. He thought Sam was better than this, but at the same time, what's nobler than self-sacrifice?

"What happened to your passion for the truth?"

"There's no such thing as one absolute truth, is there? My truth, right now, is the need to do right by Jackson."

Gene rubs his head. "I understand that. But I don't think this was the right way to go about it."

"We'll see."

Sam storms back into the building. Gene drops the end of his cigarette onto the ground and crushes it under his shoe. He goes inside and takes his place in the gallery, waiting for what he's positive shall be disaster to unfold. The jury members come back in to deliver their verdict. There's a tense minute where Gene damn near tears a hole in the leg of his trousers, he's pulling on the material so tightly.

When the verdict is announced, Gene thinks his heart explodes. He can't tell if that's a good thing or a bad. He can see Jackson rising up in his chair, grinning. Can hear Bryant's wail of disgust. Williams looks smug and happy with himself. The result is everything Gene wanted, everything he set out to secure. Jackson has been deemed not guilty on charges of grievous bodily harm. And yet. His conscience is a nagging little bastard that continues to echo that the result came about by improper means, and while he knows he's being ridiculous, he can't help but be uneasy.

That night, Gene is the one who can't sleep, playing the scenario over and over in his head, but Sam lies there snoring.

*

There's distance between them over the next couple of days. Sam notices it, though doesn't press the issue. He's not stupid, he can see one of the problems, even if he can't see them all.

Gene did so much worse back in the day. He took money and enjoyed what he thought at the time were well-deserved perks. He planted evidence, forced confessions, beat up suspects. He knows all of this, he knows it, can remember every moment and doesn't even feel regret. But Sam never supported him, Sam talked him out of it, made him change his ways.

He's not the same. He'll never grow into being the same. Gene thought he was okay with that, had convinced himself he never expected it to happen, but he's worried this reaction proves him false.

What if all this time he's been secretly regarding Sam as a facsimile of his former self, as Annie had accused, as he had initially worried? What if it's all been heavily-contrived fantasy, with him ignorant because he wants to be?

Sam's on shift, one of his last, given his proclamations the night before. Gene sits in his lounge room with a glass of Glenlivet and the only photograph he ever kept of himself and the older, wiser, whiter than white Sam. He stares at the all-too-familiar smile and frowns to himself as he tries to reason through his feelings. He hates introspection, would sooner punch himself in the head than spend any time navel-gazing, but this is something he has to muddle through. He has to understand. Is it really about morality, or simply expectation? Is it because he wants Sam to be something he never could be, someone he never could be, because he thinks Sam might be throwing away a life he's destined for?

Neither his younger self nor Sam appear to have any answers.

He doesn't expect two hands to be placed over his eyes and a low voice asking, "guess who?" close by his ear. He twists in his seat, tries to hide the photo, but he isn't quick enough. There's a chuckle and then an, "uh uh uh," and his hands are suddenly empty. Gene fights again, twists, and this time wrenches free, only to find Sam staring at the photo.

"This is me," Sam says, flat, quiet. "Only old." He stares at Gene. "Why would you create this?"

"I didn't create it. It's a photograph."

"No. No, it's some kind of trickery."

"It's not."

"Explain this to me, Gene. I need to know."

"Nothing I can say will make sense."

"So say something nonsensical, but say something."

Gene gestures to the sofa before Sam. The game is up. It's time to confess. "Fine. Sit down. This'll take a while."

"You're actually going to explain?"

"I'm gonna say something that isn't rational nor logical, but it's the explanation, sure enough."

Sam sits down, more sombre than Gene has ever seen before. Confused, too, and nervous, fingers twitching as he continues to hold the photograph tight.

"It was 1973. I'd been told by my superior that there was a DI who wanted to transfer onto my team and that I was gonna make nice and accept him as one of my own. I wasn't so inclined, but there were some orders I felt compelled to follow. It'd been a hard couple of weeks; two murder cases and an armed blag. I'd pulled an overnighter, so even though I'd been told at seven in the morning he was coming in that day, that he'd got into a minor car accident and may need medical attention, I was asleep when he arrived.

"And the first thing he said to me was, 'what year is it supposed to be?' I can remember clear as crystal, 'cause I'd often think about it in quiet moments. Worry about the sanity of my startling new recruit. But here's the thing --- even though it seemed he'd half a brain, it was the part dedicated to policing, and I wasn't gonna turn my nose up at a brilliant cop. For the most part he got along with the rest of CID and uniform. Was downright sweet on Cartwright."

"Annie?" Sam interjects, head snapping up. Gene nods, but motions for Sam to keep quiet. He has to get it all out or he'll leave now and say nothing. Sam fidgets, but seems to accept the unspoken request.

"Time went on," Gene continues, his chest starting to clench, "we got to know each other better, and I came to realise he wasn't like the others. Not just because he didn't worship the ground I walked on --- most days in the beginning there I'd a fair idea he'd prefer I stay rooted to a single spot where he could keep an eye on me --- but because of his attitudes and understandings of the world. They were so far removed from anything they had any right to be. He didn't treat women like decoration, even when he was attracted to them. Was constantly annoyed by cutting-edge forensic processes, labelling them archaic. Said I drank too much.

"Cartwright --- Annie --- she kept telling me stories that made us both nervous about the state of our DI's mind. See, he thought he was from the future. Thirty-three years, to be exact. Not even a nice, round number. He claimed he didn't know why he'd time travelled, but that he had, and it was his duty to find a way to get back home."

Sam's Adam's apple bobs at this, his eyes searching the photograph again, his brows furrowing.

"As we went on together I told him things I'd never told anyone, because even though he was cracked, around him I always felt safe. And he challenged me, and I taught him, and we saved each other's lives enough times it'd become habit. He'd become a habit, one that I never wanted to shake. It was all new, that was the weirdest part. I'd loved and I'd lusted before, but there hadn't been anyone I thought I could be myself with. The whole me. The shit as well as the shine. It wasn't like he didn't judge me, because he did, harshly --- but that was what I needed.

"And the stupid thing about all of this was that I was angry with him because he hadn't told me about being from the future, only Annie. He'd never said a word about any of it to me, not even after Annie'd said he'd decided to stay, whatever that meant. He didn't trust me with it. So I kept digging, and finding out more, and by the time we'd crossed over the boundaries of friendship and hopped into a relationship that was complex enough neither of us had words to define it, I discovered I believed what he'd never had the courage to tell me. He was a time traveller. He'd always known too much of what was going to happen, he'd always been right about things no one else could be right about."

Gene sighs. He's close to finishing, now. His heart is beating too fast and his throat is sore and he doesn't know what he expects when his narrative is finished. Maniacal laughter, Sam telling him he's officially wrong in the head, anger and resentment because of such an outrageous lie. Anything is possible, far as he's concerned.

"We'd had seven years together that would take a lifetime to sum up by the time he said he knew his death was imminent. He finally told me the truth about who he was and I said I'd always known, even though it wasn't strictly true. He asked me to go and speak to his younger self, because he didn't want to grow up to make the same sacrifices and mistakes twice. By staying with me he'd left a world behind and even though he loved me, that had never sat right. He told me the year and the club to go to and he asked me to convince you never to give up on love, hope and instinct, because he did before he met me and he never wanted to again. He believed you'd been given a second chance for a reason."

Gene purses his lips together and waits for the reaction.

Sam is pale, like all the blood is drained from his body and seeping into the floorboards. He stares through Gene --- looking in his direction, but not seeming to see a thing.

"Time travel's not real," Sam says, slowly, as if measuring each word.

"So it's been said."

"It's science fiction."

"I agree completely."

"Then, why say these things? Is it some kind of elaborate practical joke? I fail to see the punchline."

"It happened, Sam. I don't know why, or how, but it happened."

"I have to go," Sam says, each word slithering from his mouth in a whisper through clenched teeth. "I have to go somewhere else. Now." He stands, shaky on his legs like a newborn foal.

Gene wants to grab his arms and ask him to stay, to wrap him up and say sorry for such incomprehensible truth. He wants to say it will be alright, because life may be strange, but it's wonderful too. He thinks a lie might make matters worse.

Sam leaves and Gene watches him go. This is the end.


	14. a million dead-end streets

They don't make appropriate apologetic gifts for these kinds of situations. You can't go into W.H. Smith's and buy a "sorry I didn't tell you about the time travel" card. ”My condolences on suddenly realising the man who's supposed to care for you may be thinking of you as a pale imitation." "Roses are red, violets are blue, your lover's a prick and so are you."

There's no reparation to be made. Nothing he can do or say to make the situation any better. Sam wouldn't believe him anyway, because Sam's not stupid, and this whole thing is.

He thinks he's about sorted out to cope without Sam now, though. It involves a lot of wilful denial and ignoring of pain, but it seems like he's getting on. He's woken up before noon most days, made sure he's had something to eat, left his scotch alone and only had a few beers now and then. That's --- serviceable. Better than last time. It's like an instinct within him realises he has to keep himself grounded, because this time the separation is going to be permanent.

None of this stops him from wondering what Sam's doing every moment of the day. It's been two weeks since Sam left the house, angry and undeniably, understandably confused by Gene's story. Gene gave him three days to himself, thinking he'd want the time alone, knowing that's what he'd want under the same circumstances --- as if such a thing could ever exist. From the fourth day onwards, he's called 'round Sam's flat, but he's either been out or faking it, and this doesn't bode well for reconciliation.

He doesn't know if he wants or expects for them to reconcile. Maybe it's cleaner this way --- a short, sharp snap of the neck to their ill-advised relationship, so to speak.

Except there's nothing clean about it, of course, so even suggesting as such is the basest kind of self-manipulation. And it seems, no matter how confused he is within himself, that he doesn't want to lose Sam.

A small voice cruelly asks him how it's possible to lose something that's already lost.

He can't help but think that after all this, after everything they've been through, this sort of end is simply unfair. It isn't something that's been chosen, it's cards they've been dealt. He doesn't really believe in destiny, but if he did, he thinks there's enough evidence that suggests they should be together. As if they're fated to make the same mistakes over and over again, that there's some bastard obsessed with a flip-book who hasn't figured out he can add or erase a line with the simplest of tools.

He goes to Sam's flat for the umpteenth time and pounds on the front door, waiting for someone to let him in. No one does and he's halfway through walking away when a shout arrests his attention.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

It's the Tyler intonation, but it's all wrong. Gene glances quickly over his shoulder to spot Ruth, expression freakishly distorted as she stares at him.

"What have you done with my son?"

He stops. Stupidly, he thinks. But he stops. He draws up short, turns more towards Ruth. She's still glaring daggers and has come closer.

"Nothing, recently. Why? Haven't you seen him?"

She ignores his question. "What are you doing here? How do you know where Sam lives?"

Gene is mentally composing an excuse when Ruth's expression changes from murderous rage to dawning horror. He's not privy to her mental meanderings, but he has a horrible suspicion he can guess at what they are.

"Oh, no," she whispers. "No. It's not you, is it? You're not his secret? The lover he refuses to talk about. Tell me it's not you." Tears start to well up in her eyes. Gene wants to laugh it off, but finds he's unable. Ruth's face crumples. "Oh God, it's true."

Gene takes a deep breath, wants, once again, to be about to refute Ruth's claim with something believable, but his lies are all exhausted, and he's wholeheartedly sick of this game. He recommences marching down the road.

"Don't run away, you coward," Ruth shrieks.

"Gene Hunt doesn't run. He walks. Briskly." Gene looks back at Ruth over his shoulder. "Look, just follow me, okay? We can have this discussion in a private place, where people are less likely to pay attention to your proclamations I'm a pervert."

"I'm not going anywhere with you."

"Then I'm not telling you what your son's been up to for the past several months, nor giving any clue as to where he may be now."

"So you do know where Sam is."

"If I knew where he was, I'd be with him, but I can make some educated guesses."

Indecision plays across Ruth's features exactly as transparently as it does her son's, and it's obvious she's weighing the pros and cons of believing him. The pros appear to win out because she strides towards Gene. He thinks he should probably have expected the slap, but he hasn't been thinking straight for a while. It stings with a burning intensity. Ruth put her full weight into it and Gene's pretty sure he should feel lucky she went for the slap rather than a knee to the balls.

They don't talk to one another as they walk down the road and hail a cab. Discussing the weather doesn't seem too attractive and Gene's worried that opening up any other lines of conversation will lead to a shouting match. They're silent on the way to Gene's semi-detached.

"I dropped him off here once," Ruth says as they turn into the start of the road. She dips her head. "I can't believe he..." The sentence goes unfinished and Gene doesn't try to reason how it may have ended.

The cab stops, Gene pays, they go into his house and he offers Ruth tea, and it's all so bizarrely commonplace, Gene wonders if it's a nightmare. But instead of hellfire and brimstone there's his second-hand green sofa, plush grey armchairs and pine coffee table surrounding them.

"Tell me why," she demands. "Tell me how you could do such a thing."

"No," Gene answers. "You tell me --- what made you jump to the instant conclusion I was bumming your son?"

Ruth looks stricken, and for the tiniest of seconds, Gene feels a pang of conscience, but it dissipates when he reminds himself that Ruth has been holding back for a long time and he's tired of it, of the omissions, of the lies.

"Most people," he continues, "would assume that their darling child was tangled up in corruption if they were somehow in league with a man they've been taught was famous for it. You didn't. There has to be a reason."

"I don't owe you any explanations. You owe me."

Gene leans forward and speaks deliberately. "Quid pro quo."

Ruth is still evasive, but Gene isn't having any of it. He settles himself in his armchair and glares. He can wait. He'll wait forever to get the answers he wants. He was trained from a young age. He knows his silence can be just as terrifying as his shouting, and Ruth will squirm sooner or later.

"I know he has a man in his life. Someone he doesn't want to talk to me about," she says, finally, lasting longer than Gene had rightly expected. "I know this man has to be older, because of a couple comments Sam's made. There you were, hanging around his block of flats like a bad smell. You can't be trusted. And Sam's always had a streak of headstrong foolishness."

"That's not the whole of it," Gene says. "Come on, Ruth, admit it. You can't be so blind that it's escaped your notice your boy's grown into looking exactly the same as DI Tyler from all those years ago. My friend. The one you said turned up out of the blue again when Sam was six."

"You're insane."

"That may be, but it doesn't mean I'm wrong."

"Of course you're wrong. It couldn't be true. Sam's not..." Ruth trails off again. Gene gets increasingly frustrated and try as he might he can't hide it. His voice takes on a rough quality that would have been menacing fifteen years ago but these days mostly sounds tired with the world.

"Not what? What isn't he?"

"Capable of whatever it is you're suggesting."

"No, not yet. Maybe not ever, in this lifetime. I don't know how it works."

"How what works?"

For a second, Ruth looks small in her confusion. It's disarming and Gene almost forgets how lethal she can be, but rubbing his hand over his cheek reminds him with startling clarity. He attempts to pierce her with another look, but he thinks he needs something sharper than what he's got.

"Will you listen to the whole story before you condemn me?" he asks, pouring two glasses of scotch despite never having enquired whether Ruth would want one.

"What will you do if I say no?"

"I'll show you the door and we'll never speak of this again. Which means neither of us will get the answers we seek. But I think we've both gone past that, haven't we?"

"I don't know what you think I could possibly tell you. Seems to me like you're the one with intimate knowledge of my son."

"You could tell me when you first realised, for a start. When you first became scared because what you thought you knew was impossible. It'd be a strange kind of comfort to know I'm not truly alone." Gene frowns to himself.

"I'm not admitting I've realised anything of the sort you're implying. I don't even really know what you're implying."

"No. No realisations for you, were there?" Gene says, acerbic. "Yet you're here. Sitting in my house. Sipping my scotch. Waiting."

Ruth has recovered all her steel and she points an accusatory finger. "You said you could guess where Sam was."

"Right. There's a café we both used to go to. I'll give you the address and you can fuck off."

Ruth's eyes flash bright, so reminiscent of her son Gene's guts clench. "I can fuck off? The nerve of you, Hunt. Oh, please, tell me everything you're so desperately clamouring about. Go on, unburden yourself. I'll just sit here and absorb it all for your pleasure."

The spiky sarcasm is biting, but Ruth doesn't make any effort to move. She's stock still and tense, anticipatory. Gene is temporarily caught off guard once more. As he begins he stumbles over his words.

He tells the whole story, from start to finish, and when he's done he's had three glasses of scotch and two staring matches with Ruth when she's interrupted and resolutely refused to believe him. He thinks he should be used to monologues by now, that he's related this narrative enough times to himself as well as to others. He's sick of his own voice.

"Well. That was an interesting and disturbingly elaborate fairy tale," Ruth says. "But now I think I will go to that café you mentioned."

Ruth stands, but Gene doesn't make any effort to stop her. Instead, he pulls out the photograph he's been keeping in his pocket the past five days and places it on the coffee table. He taps his glass so Ruth won't fail to look, and as she does, as her eyebrows rise high on her head and her mouth opens in surprise, Gene asks what he's been dying to ask since this whole thing began.

"How do you explain it, then?"

Ruth looks at the photograph for a long time. Tears well in her eyes again and this time Gene feels more empathy.

"I can't," she says, eventually. "I want to, but I can't."

"Precisely. We all want there to be some reasonable justification for this whole mess, but there isn't one." Gene studies Ruth as she silently settles back onto the sofa, her lips tight and her back stiff.

"He died," Ruth says. "So young. Twice, in your version of events. Why would any mother wish that upon her son?"

"She wouldn't. But could she accept it as fact regardless?"

Ruth twines her fingers together and gazes again at the photograph on the table. "It doesn't look like I have much choice."

"When was the last time you spoke to Sam?"

"A week and a half ago. He has dinner with me Thursday nights."

"Yeah, I know, he's practically been living here a month and change, remember?"

"You would also no doubt know that he missed last week, rang me up to apologise, but I was busy so I asked if I could call him back. I've been calling him since, but getting no response."

"He's been avoiding you because of the trial, his decision to leave the force," Gene says, "has a guilty conscience after all."

"You know that, do you?"

"No. Once upon a time I might have said yes, absolutely, but as I told you, I've recently seen the error of my ways. This is one of my educated guesses."

"You seem to be making a big deal out of this trial. I can't say I see that Sam did anything wrong."

"You don't understand."

"Not everyone gets to be as hypocritically high and mighty as you, no."

"It isn't that. At least, I don't think so." Gene pauses, collects his thoughts. "The man I knew wouldn’t have lied in criminal proceedings, not even in the name of justice. He may have wanted to, but it would have been a step too far."

"You're sure of that?" Ruth asks, surprising him by sounding for once like she isn't on the edge of throttling him. "Didn't seem to hold much truck with accepted conventions the occasions I met him. Never has as a child."

"Half our lives revolved around him spouting rules at me."

"People often say one thing, do another."

"'Course you'd defend him, you're the response when people ask where he got his morals and manners."

"I'm not defending his actions, I'm just pointing out they're not as unexpected as you seem to believe. Sam's not perfect. Fallen for you, hasn't he?"

"You think I should forgive him his sins?"

"I'm not saying that. Don't think I'm encouraging you to stick around my son, 'cause I'm not. As far as I'm concerned, you can sod off. A teenager like Sam has no business being in a relationship with the likes of you."

"He turns twenty in a week."

"That is no excuse and you know it."

"What are you saying, Ruth? 'Don't damage Sam when you break his heart?' I'll try, but it might be tricky."

"Talk to him. Explain. Don't dump him for your own gratification, upholding of moral superiority, without giving him an opportunity to understand. He deserves better."

"This has nothing to do with superiority. All I've ever wanted is what's best for Sam. When I've failed at that, it's not for lack of desire, only judgement. It's never been my intention to hurt him."

"Then say your goodbyes before you go. He's worshipped you for too long."

A large and unwieldy part of Gene wants to declare that the feeling's mutual, that he'd go to the ends of the earth if it would make Sam happy. It seems that, in defence, Gene is always strong in his convictions. It angers him more than words can say that this isn't his constant state of being.

"They had a conversation, didn't they?" Gene says, more confirmation than question. "The two Sams, all those years ago. They spoke for a while."

"Sammy was missing half an hour. Your Sam was showing him a photo of you both together when I realised what was going on. Apparently he said that if Sammy ever got scared or lonely, he should remember that you existed. That you would always be close by, protecting him, keeping him from harm. Sammy thought you must be some kind of angel. God, he spoke about it for weeks after. It really did take years to convince him you were the devil instead."

"I don't think he was ever thoroughly convinced."

"More's the pity." Ruth frowns, her lips twisting up. "Tell me more about him? The man my son grew into."

"It's not gonna happen now. He's already another person."

"I know. But I'm curious. Please."

"After that, maybe we could put our heads together and sort out where Sam may be."

"What's the saying? The enemy of my enemy?"

"Something like that."

Ruth picks up her glass and signals to the bottle of scotch. Gene quirks an eyebrow, but complies with her unspoken request. If they're to be allies, it will probably be best to be liquored up.

*

It takes another two days before they manage to track Sam down. He hasn't visited his flat in over a week, seemingly keen to avoid acquaintances and friends. It's Ruth who finally discovers the link, and Gene has a moment of grudging respect. Detective work is in Sam's blood, alongside stubbornness, tenacity, obnoxiousness, and volatility. Sam's been staying with one of his original band-mates, a man he once described to Gene in less than glowing terms --- the words miserly and dick had been used --- so Gene doesn't exactly understand his reasoning. It becomes slightly clearer when Gene hears amongst the dwindling Madchester crowd that the band has reformed. They have an underground bunch of groupies that are thrilled they're playing a gig that night. Which also probably explains why neither Sam nor his band-mate Kevin are at the flat as previously reported.

Gene had contacted Annie the first night he and Ruth went searching for Sam. She comes along for the ride to the club, discussing a series of cases her division are working on in what Gene suspects is an attempt to fill the void stretching throughout the cab. He finds he has little desire to respond to her prattling, and isn't all that surprised Ruth doesn't bother either. He is surprised that the two women don't talk more to one another. He's smart enough to realise that this surprise is unwarranted and it would be inadvisable to state it out loud.

They go straight towards the stage area of the club, Gene purposely barging his way through the baying hordes. The club-goers jostle and push back, but shift to the side when a little force is applied. There's a large crowd this evening. Gene wonders if they're all there to see Sam's band, whether someone else is playing, or whether the beer's cheap.

He's rendered temporarily breathless when he finally sees Sam leaning against the wall to the left of the stage, strumming chords in the air. He blames it on Annie barrelling into his back as he stops suddenly, but when it takes more than two seconds to get his lungs working again he concedes there may be other reasons. Sam looks up, as if sensing him, and immediately his face is a scowl. His gaze is fixed and Gene would bet he hasn't noticed they're not alone.

"I have nothing to say to you," Sam says, darkly.

"Good. You can expend all your energy listening."

"So you can tell me another pack of lies? Your imagination's impressive, don't get me wrong, but I went to a matinee earlier, so my fiction quota's used up for the day."

"He didn't lie to you," Ruth says, drawing Sam's attention.

Sam's shock is evident in every line of his body. He springs off the wall as if electrocuted, limbs going rigid. The words uncomfortable and awkward do little to accurately describe his posture.

"It's true, Sam," Annie adds, flanking Gene's other side.

"And I think you already know that," Ruth continues. "But you're too scared to admit it."

There's a pregnant pause in which Sam slumps back down against the wall. Gene takes a deep, steadying breath and goes to sit next to him, slinging his arm over his shoulders and ignoring Ruth's snuffle of disapproval.

"I've something for you that might soften the blow."

Sam doesn't shrug him off. He's even opening his mouth to speak when there's a commotion several yards away.

"Where is he?" a voice yells, rage-filled. "I know the faggot's around here somewhere."

Gene's about to tell the loud bastard to pipe down when he notices who it is and whom he's headed towards. His anger swiftly rises, surging to take control of his actions.

Carlton is as gigantic as Gene remembers, but this doesn't deter him from standing up and flicking his head back in a display of alpha male bravado. He's successfully confronted and frightened tougher men than the bully in front of him.

"Now, now, little boys shouldn't go around using nasty words like that," Gene says, keeping his tone ice cold and more mocking because of it.

Carlton stops dead and grunts, disbelieving. He looks from Sam to Gene back to Sam again and snarls. "I'd always guessed as much, you sick fuck."

Sam likely has no idea what Carlton's talking about, but he shakily makes his way to his feet to stand alongside Gene, shoulder to shoulder.

Carlton points at Gene. "Who is this, then? Your sugar daddy?"

"What do you want, Carlton?"

"I'm here to haul your arse to the station."

"What's going on?" Ruth interjects, and Gene remembers it's unlikely she knows anything about Sam's tormentor.

"What's going on, Granny, is that this bender is a corrupt waste of space who's going to accompany me to the police station to answer to a higher power."

"You're calling me corrupt? What is it, topsy-turvy day? Hilarious."

Gene admires Sam's reaction. He's calm and dispassionate, not easily rising to the bait. His body betrays him again, his blood pounding thick in his veins and his stomach lurching with need and adoration.

"Bryant's cut a deal. He's gonna give us the names of several key drugs suppliers. But in repayment he wants his revenge on the copper who perverted the course of justice, lied to the Crown Court. Stupid of me to think there'd only be one kind of perversion you'd be into."

An edge of panic comes across Sam's features. "This isn't official," he says. "Can't be. They wouldn't send a lone officer."

"I'm the advance team. I wanted to be the first to cut you down to size."

"No one's cutting anything. This is ludicrous, not to mention baseless," Gene says, stepping forward and shoving at Carlton's shoulder. "I suggest you go and find something worthwhile to do with your time."

Instead of heeding what Gene thought was fairly friendly advice, Carlton grips his wrist tight, twists his hand away, and socks him with a right-hook. It's a momentary shock that leaves him reeling, but within another second, he's attempting to haul Carlton against the wall and lay into him. Gene has a lot of brute strength, but Carlton has height and bulk in his favour. When Carlton picks him up he feels like a rag doll and in this moment Gene can fully appreciate how utterly defenceless Sam must have felt during every single one of his beat-downs. It's an unfair competition. Like a kitten against a steamroller. He'll be flat and bloodied within ten seconds and the most he could hope for is ruining the machinery.

He doesn't bank on Sam climbing on Carlton's back and clobbering him around the head with his free fist. Doesn't make allowances for both Ruth and Annie joining the fray. His ears are ringing and his head's dizzy, but he's vaguely aware their brawl has extended beyond them and has set off a chain of violence, a battlefield akin to a riot around them, like something from one of his beloved Westerns.

He's freed from the unceremonious grip he found himself in and Carlton's immediately on the ground, Annie standing on his chest as Ruth screams at him to leave her son alone. But there's shouting behind him too, and he swings around in time to see the punch before it glances off his nose. He's pushed to the side --- belatedly realising by Sam --- but there's another blow to his head and his surroundings become shaky.

Sam appears to be holding his own against three other men, though Gene can't dismiss he may have triple vision as well as a searing stitch. There's the sound of glass breaking as he stumbles over to assist, a table close by overturning, accompanied by the shrill scream of a woman, but he doesn't pay any of that much attention. His eyes rove between Sam and potential escape routes.

"Watch out!" Annie yells, and it takes Gene a second to realise why, but then he sees the bloke wielding the half-broken bottle towards Sam's chest.

"You fucking pillock," Gene barks. "You're gonna kill someone."

He guesses the bloke isn't caring much about that when he swings the broken shards of glass again. He's getting perilously close to Sam, stabbing forward wildly, and in an unthinking flash, Gene steps in front of one vicious arc. He knocks the man off balance and sends him hurtling next to Carlton, which he's sure makes him the hero of the piece and deserving of fierce adulation, but he's rewarded with a gasp from Ruth instead. He's confused and the stitch in his side has become more painful, and Gene doesn't really know why he's collapsing to his knees, before he looks and sees a red stain blooming on his shirt.

As blood oozes through his fingers and it gets increasingly difficult to breathe, Gene stares up at Sam and thinks that this is right, this fits. Sam is safe, and free, and will be happy again one day. And then the world goes black and he doesn't think at all.


	15. time may change me (but you can't trace time)

There's conversation around him. Sometimes he makes sense of it, often it's fragmented and his mind is cloudy. Sometimes he thinks he recognises the voices, often all he can hear are vaguely formed words. He tries to ignore most of it, wanting only to sleep. He slips in and out of wakefulness, but never opens his eyes. It would be too much effort and there's a dull throbbing all over his body, like he's been through a mangler and tenderised all on one monstrous machine. He's sore, but he isn't overwhelmed, and he surmises he must be on painkillers.

As time passes, he finds it increasingly difficult to block out discussion. Words become clearer, his brain less fuzzed.

"... rest, I couldn't without knowing he's gonna wake up."

"The doctor says he will when he's ready, Sam. You need to sleep."

He opens his eyes at Sam's name. It seems as good a time as any.

"Could you all kindly shut your gobs?" Gene asks, "I'm trying to get some kip here."

There's an exclamation and immediate hustle and bustle, all a ridiculous fuss. He gazes at Sam, whose hand has gripped his. Sam gazes back with a watery-eyed smile.

"There you are," Sam says, warm and quiet.

"Haven't managed to shake the affliction of stating the bleeding obvious, I see," Gene returns. "You'd think they'd have sorted out some kind of pill by now."

Sam grips his hand tighter, but Gene doesn't think it's revenge.

"Right, he's awake," Ruth says, firmly. "You can go sleep now."

Sam looks at her and doesn't say a word, but the message is loud and clear. 'That's not going to happen any time soon.'

Ruth sighs, but doesn't argue the point. "I'm going to go get some coffee and tell Annie the good news. Take care of one another. If he tries to leave the bed, Sam, don't be afraid to thwack him one." Ruth fixes Gene with a look. "Try to ensure Sam agrees to go to bed after you've had a chat, please."

Gene nods, he's guessing it's the least he could do. He doesn't know how long he's been out of it, but judging by the bags around both Sam's and Ruth's eyes, he suspects it's been all night and a better part of the day. Ruth leaves them, and Gene is almost taken aback by the gratitude he feels. They're not yet alone, there are two nurses here to poke and prod him, but they'll be gone soon enough.

"What's the damage?" he asks, still feeling groggy and wondering if that will be a permanent fixture in his life from now on.

"Surprisingly minor," one of the nurses replies. She's an older, broad woman, diligently checking his pulse and moving his head this way and that with no-nonsense practiced efficiency. She's comforting in a way Gene wouldn't have expected. "You have severe lacerations in your side, however, all major organs were mercifully avoided. Best not to get involved in any more bar-fights, though."

Gene feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I'll try, matron."

"No lip, Mr Hunt," the second nurse reprimands. "If it weren't for us here at the hospital, you'd be dancing to the devil's fiddle."

The nurses do a final check and depart, not giving a verdict on how Gene's faring. He presumes that means he's actually not on the cusp of death, though if he moves a certain way it feels like it. The dull throb has escalated to more of a series of sharp stabs.

"I thought you were gone." Tears threaten to escape down Sam's cheeks. He brushes at his nose with the heel of his hand.

Gene hasn't seen Sam cry in a long time. He'd hoped he'd never have to see it again. It does strange things to him, makes him want to punch and hug simultaneously. Fortunately, he doesn't think he's physically capable of either at this current moment.

"It takes more than a bit of glass to slow down the Gene Genie," he says, willing his expression not to scrunch up at the fact some days he may as well be a parody of himself.

"Gene Genie," Sam reiterates, scoffs, like he did all those months ago. Then his demeanour changes, he frowns softly. "Is that what he used to call you?"

"It was a nickname I gave myself," Gene replies. "People always assumed I did so not knowing the meaning behind the Bowie song. The joke was on them." He thinks back. "Sam may have used it once or twice, most likely when he was being a shit." Gene pauses, takes a deep, painful breath. "Willing to concede I wasn't lying, then?"

"Annie showed me some more photographs," Sam says, ducking his head. "And I remember him. Me." He looks up. "I'd already remembered."

"I know it's confusing."

"Strange is what it is. Does it mean I can do it too? Go back into the past? Maybe even forward into the future?"

"I don't know. Don't know how we'd find out, either."

"I wouldn't want to," Sam says. "It must have been like a long, drawn-out nightmare at first."

Gene nods. "Yeah, he hated it to begin with. I could tell at the time, too, but I didn't know why. I thought he was a regular transfer from Hyde. We'd even talk about Hyde, and in all that time, I'd no idea he was using it as a code for decades in the future. No one would make that assumption, not unless they were bonkers."

"Both mum and Annie have said he was, a bit..." Sam trails off.

"Crazy? Sam? Not really. No more than anyone else. Worse at hiding the fact, perhaps." Gene raises an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I sometimes feel like I'm missing something. A piece of me. That night I first met you, the sensation disappeared for a while."

"It was like you said, I understood things about you that not even you understood at the time. The things you and Sam had in common."

"Me and Sam." Sam rubs his head, closes his eyes. Looks like he might roll off the chair, lie down on the floor, and sleep.

Gene goes to move, thinks better of it. He studies Sam again, the bags under his eyes, the lengthening stubble. He looks like he's been through the same mangler Gene was mauled by. It's an extremely disconcerting sight.

"You didn't have to stay with me the whole time. I wasn't lucid, I wouldn't have known."

"All the more reason to stay, really."

"Except for the bit where you're obviously knackered and have been in the wars yourself."

"Yeah, well, I can manage. I'll be fine after a nap."

Managing, Gene reflects, is not the same as being fine. He thinks about saying that, but refrains.

"What's going on with Carlton?"

"Not much. We've come to the conclusion he didn't want to be arrested in connection with starting a riot, because he disappeared at about the same time you were attacked. That nutter's gone into a nice, locked cell, by the way."

"Shouldn't you be in the midst of questioning right now?"

"I was. It's been four days, Gene."

"And there I was, thinking the beard's a fashion statement," Gene says. He attempts levity, but he has a horrible feeling he ends up at flippant. He clutches for Sam's hand again, gives it a small shake. "Sorry."

"So you should be," Sam grumbles. "Even mum was worried on your behalf, and she hates you."

"Hate's a strong word," Ruth voice says from the doorway. "Dislike and disapproval, sure. Hatred, no." She looks pointedly at Gene again as she says, "Sam, go have a lie down now."

"Yeah, get yourself in a comfortable bed," Gene reiterates. "I promise I won't go anywhere."

Sam reluctantly stands, shuffles towards the door, barely taking his eyes off Gene.

"I'll be back later," he insists.

"Only after you've had a good meal and a wash. You look emaciated and you stink," Gene returns.

"If you hadn't saved my life in recent days I'd be telling you where you could shove a good meal and a wash," Sam says, with a half-smile and slight hand gesture.

"Please, don't soften on my account. I don't need your kid gloves. Or, in your case, should that just be 'gloves'?"

"Goodbye, Gene."

Gene expects Ruth to go with Sam, but she doesn't. She hovers in the doorway. "Annie'll be along in a moment," she says. She hesitates. "I know we think the worst of each other, but it's obvious to me we both have Sam's best interests at heart. I trust you'll do the right thing."

She leaves, and Gene stares at her retreating back. He thinks she's probably right. If only he knew what the right thing was.

*

The following days are difficult. Sam comes back looking healthier, happier, but continually unwilling to leave Gene's side. Annie and Ruth make suggestions, but he ignores them. He only goes when the doctors and nurses force him to, and doesn't look at all happy about the imposition. Gene keeps wanting to tell Sam to go himself, but he thinks he should wait until he's safely out of hospital. He can't blame Sam for wanting to ensure the man who saved his life is going to be all right in the long run. He'd feel the same.

Sam also tells everyone he's officially resigned from the Force. Gene's surprised, but he feels a wave of relief rather than disappointment or anger. Resignation is a marked improvement over being kicked out, and he knows, despite the current radio silence, that Carlton will be back to cause trouble and strife when the mood strikes him. He's the type of insufferable prick who couldn't resist. Ruth is on the other side of pleased that her son is leaving a dangerous profession, despite him not knowing what he wants to do next. She seems to view it as a victory. She makes it clear she never wanted him to be a cop in the first place; she's offered support because that's what mothers do. Annie's the only one who voices an objection to Sam quitting.

"You have such talent," she laments. "Gene's told me all about how you tracked him down. That took skill."

"If only I had half the dedication when on the beat," Sam retorts. He explains, calmly, simply, and Gene's impressed, until he thinks about it more and realises he's to blame. "When I was very young I wanted to be a cop because I thought that would give me a way to find my dad. As I grew older, I thought it'd give me a way to learn the truth about who he'd been and the troubles he'd gone through. And that became me thinking I could avenge him. But I know the truth, Annie, and there's nothing to avenge. I don't love policing and it doesn't love me. It's an imperfect fit."

By the fourth day Gene's stabbing pain escalates further into sharp, constant jabs, until he's dosed up with stronger painkillers. The bandages come off and he sees the damage. He looks like Frankenstein's monster, skin stretched haphazardly over muscle and clumsily stitched. For a few seconds he's acutely aware he's thankful he's alive.

Jackson, Trisha and Tyrone visit six days into Gene's enforced hospital stay, bringing a basket full of fruit and a giant card.

"Everyone at the community centre's missing you, but I've tried to fill the gap," Jackson says. "I call at least two people scumbags every day, and I called Pauline a nasty little scrote last night."

"It's true," Trisha confirms. "His impersonation is dead-on. You'd be proud."

Gene makes to clip Jackson around the ear, but he's heartened to know that Jackson's finding his feet again. He's started a band of his own, has been offered a part-time job by Roger. Things are on the up. They have Sam's birthday celebration that day; with cake he's not allowed to eat, and sequestered beer he's not allowed to drink. Ruth brings baby pictures and Gene isn't stupid enough to think she's not sending him a not-so-secret message.

He's discharged from the hospital after another week. He hobbles outside, assisted by Sam, who takes one of his arms around his shoulders and bears his weight.

Gene holds on tight. "I may flounder, but I'll never fall. Couldn't. You're always there to prop me up."

It's supposed to be sarcastic. He's going for mockery. It's one of the most sincere things he's said in his life.

Sam doesn't reply, concentrating on helping him into a cab, but his eyes shine bright once he's finished and there's a flush over his cheeks. Gene wants to bang his head against the seat in front for his accidental encouragement.

When Sam finally goes home, after two hours of coddling and tutting, Gene allows himself time to wallow over his current predicament. When Sam was angry he had a better chance of his plan working out, but there's no anger and precious little distance between them now. Sam's infatuation has come back full force, and after almost losing everything, the largest part of Gene is disinclined to spurn him.

*

It's another week of recovery before Gene has the strength to bring up the conversation he's been dreading. He's discussed the matter with Annie, who was no help at all, pointing out --- probably rightly --- that he'd do the opposite of her advice anyway.

They're sitting watching television when Gene broaches the subject. Sam's legs are slung over his, his head tilted back against the arm-rest. He looks content, which means this is absolutely the worst time to shatter his illusions; conversely also making it the best time, because maybe it will finally stick.

"I have something for you."

Gene reaches onto his end table to pull his folder close. It's what he had wanted to give Sam the night of the riot. Something that, at that time, he'd thought would soften the blow. He passes the folder over and waits for the reaction.

“You couldn’t be less subtle if you tried, could you?” Sam asks with a derisive snort within five seconds of glancing at the folder's contents. He swings his feet to the ground and nudges into Gene. "Why do you keep pushing me away?"

"Because it's for the best."

"On whose authority?

“Mine."

Sam looks through the folder again, the tickets and the booking information. An around the world trip --- and not a succinct eighty days' worth --- but months of tours and planned journeys that would consume close to a year. The uppermost ticket is airfare with a set date a week from now. The initial plan had been to give Sam a month to get used to the concept, but that time had seemed to speed by.

"This looks extensive," Sam says, quirking an eyebrow. "Expensive," he corrects, looking closer to accusatory than grateful.

"No five star hotels, you'll be spending some of it backpacking, but, yeah, it cost a pretty penny," Gene admits. He's hoping this will act as leverage. "Enjoy."

"Yeah. If you think I'm going to leave the man I love behind whilst I go traipsing on a jaunt across the seas, you've got another think coming."

Gene sucks in a breath. This was precisely the reaction he'd been anxious about. "You don't love me, Sam. It's infatuation."

"You believe that as strongly as I do, which is to say not at all. What, when all this started, you never considered the idea that if I fell in love with you once, I could do it again?”

“I thought about it,” Gene says, quietly. His lungs protest the admission, wheezing painfully. He waits a moment before he finishes, bleary-eyed and indignant. “I dismissed the idiocy.”

“It’s not idiotic that I should love you,” Sam says, jutting his chin forward. He looks determined. Intractable.

“It is.”

“You’re not gonna start on that ‘you’re so very young and I’m so very old’ routine again, are you? It gets boring after the first iteration, let alone the ninth.”

“Yes, I am. There’s any number of things you could be doing with your life and the last thing you need is a decrepit old bastard like me weighing you down.”

“I suppose we’ll have to add ageist onto the list of the many ists you represent. Far above pragmatist, and just below egotist.” Sam stares at him as if he could change his mind with a glance, and sometimes Gene thinks he can. “Look, I get it, okay? I know you’re probably right. This is not the way things are meant to be. We come from different times, different understandings. You make jokes I’ll never get, I have interests you’ll never have.

“But that hasn't stopped us so far. We've made it work. You can't tell me things aren't good between us." He presses forward. "I wanna be with you. You once told me I shouldn’t be afraid to love. Fuck, I once told me I shouldn’t be afraid to love. So I’m not going to, Gene. I’m not gonna let go.”

Gene pulls away. “And what if I told you that you should ‘cause I don’t love you back, Sam? I loved him. He’s not you.”

The words stab into his chest the second he says them and he prepares himself to see Sam's resolve crumble into a thousand pieces.

He doesn't bank on that not happening. He doesn't ever consider that Sam's reaction might be the reverse.

“I’d tell you to stop lying, ‘cause if you didn’t care you wouldn’t be saying it.” Sam is fierce, unguarded, obviously sure in his conviction. It makes Gene's stomach drop, that Sam could believe something he's not even positive about himself.

“Don’t you think this should be my choice?" Sam continues. "Isn’t that what the older version of me said?”

“The older you said you should go and live a totally different life, far away from the likes of me.”

“The older me was a fool!”

Gene wants to shout. He wants to punch, he wants to leave. But instead he stares, feeling heat rocket through his skin. "You don't get to make that call."

Sam's eyes become shuttered, his skin pales. “I’m sorry. But if he --- if I ever really intended to let you go, why did I do the things I did? Visit myself and tell me about you, ask you to talk to me personally when I was old enough to," Sam pauses, seems to gather his thoughts, "to develop a physical fascination? I know myself pretty well. Better than I did originally, I think. I’m not entirely sure my intentions were all that honourable.”

Gene contemplates. If it's true, to his mind, it had to have been unintentional. Sam had always been a manipulative bastard, but not like this. This was cruel.

He presses his hand to his forehead. “I think my brain’s going to explode.”

“Why do I get the horrible feeling in your eyes that would be the perfect solution?”

Gene avoids looking at Sam’s face, concentrating on the window instead. He can’t deny that. He's never been one to wish for death, not even at his lowest, but to lose his life saving Sam's had felt like a worthwhile cause.

Sam's voice cuts into his thoughts, low and mocking, but somehow warm too. “No, you feel nothing for me at all.”

"You're not him. You've had two separate lives. You do understand that, right?"

"Of course I do," Sam says. "But I guess the lines are blurred, for me. He's what I could have become. What I suppose I still could become, in a way. And, I don't know. I understand. Who'd want to lose this? Us?" He gives a wry smile. "Besides, I know you love me for exactly who I am. I'm adorable."

Gene stares at the carpet for a long time, mulling over Sam's proclamations. He's peripherally aware of Sam going to his drinks cabinet and pouring him a glass of Glenlivet. He takes the proffered drink and downs it in one go. There are countless arguments he thinks about starting, and countless he dismisses. Sam sees things in black and white --- always did. His mind is made up and that's that.

Gene has a last-ditch attempt. He passes the folder back to Sam. "Look, go around the world. See what life has to offer. Eat and drink and fuck and love, and if, after that, you wanna spend your time with a crumbling, rust-filled bag of bones like me, well, on your own head be it.”

Sam’s brows knit together. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes. I do."

"No more, 'Sam, we shouldn't be doing this because I'm a pile of cracked crockery and you're a veritable sex god'?"

"Not a word."

"No disappearing act?"

"I promise. But you'd have to promise me that you would do everything in your power to enjoy yourself, that you would commit to it."

"I could do that so long as I knew that when I came back you'd accept this, accept us."

"You mightn't want that," Gene says quietly. "You might not come back. Not if you did as I say and put your heart, head and soul into relishing the experience."

Sam shrugs one shoulder, but something about the way he avoids Gene's gaze suggests it's less 'maybe' and more 'if that's what you think.' It makes Gene despair.

Sam looks through the tickets again. Begins to read a page. "If I say no, can these be refunded?"

"Probably. But if you say no, I don't think I could ever forgive the snub. That would be it between us."

"You could always come with me."

"Oh yeah, brilliant idea that," Gene says. He slips into his least flattering impersonation of Sam, because he wants to get his point across and in his experience nothing's as successful as mockery. "'Gene, Gene, let's climb that mountain, it looks really wicked and I bet I could get some amazing photos!'" He replies in his own voice. "'Bugger, I think I've dislocated a hip.'"

Sam looks singularly unimpressed. "It doesn't have to be like that."

"Doesn't mean it won't be."

"You're not even willing to entertain the idea?"

"I've not got the cash to take it to the pictures, wine it or dine it. No. Not willing." Gene does his best not to sigh, but he can't eradicate every exasperated tone out of his words. "Most people would be jumping at this opportunity. Sane people would beg."

"Fine, then. Fine," Sam exclaims, throwing up his hands for what Gene presumes is dramatic effect. "I'll go. But I want your assurance --- no, dammit, I want your guarantee --- that when I return you're mine."

"Sam, I'm yours now. That's why I've done all this. You know that."

"Gene..." Sam starts, but he doesn't finish. He shakes his head.

"You'd regret not seeing the wonders of the world. I know that for a fact," Gene says, pressing the point until it's as deep as it can be. He knows it will hurt, it might even leave a lasting mark. "And when you come back," he says, measuring his words carefully, "if you still want everything you want now, no more prevarication. No holding you at arm's length. I'll capitulate."

Sam stares at him a long time before leaning in for a kiss. Gene acquiesces, just this once, licking over his teeth and into his mouth, deep and warm and yielding.

*

Standing in the departure lounge, Gene doesn't know what to do with his hands. He constantly wants to reach out and hold Sam, but he won't.

"This is very generous," Ruth says for the fourth time. She's nervously twisting her hands and glaring balefully.

The glare isn't directed at him, though. Couldn't be, he doesn't think, considering they came up with the idea of giving Sam this year abroad together. She's trying to convince Sam that this experience will be good for him.

"It's cruel and unusual punishment," Sam says, but for all his protestations, he looks cheerful and excited, bouncing with frenetic energy.

"It's exceedingly generous," Gene counters. "The lengths I'm compelled to go to, to save Sam from himself."

Ruth almost smiles at that, a shadow of shared humour at Sam's expense. She glances away quickly.

There are only a few minutes left before Sam has to go and he fiddles with his bag every twenty seconds, checking and rechecking that he has everything on his list. He's off to Australia first --- a tactical move on Gene's part. As far away, attractive and full of adventure as possible.

He's battling a not-so-civil war inside his head between wanting success in the plan of sending Sam off into the world to conquer his own destiny, and having Sam return experienced in many of life's joys and still wanting him. It's a bloody battle and the only prisoner will be his pride.

Finally, Sam's called to the gate, and he rummages around in his hand luggage for one last time.

“What are you doing, Sam?”

“I’m coming back to you,” Sam says, earnestly, like his heart is three sizes too big and he has to release some of the energy contained. He straightens up and crowds into Gene's space, pressing a photograph into his hand. “I’ll always come back to you, Gene.”

There isn’t an appropriate reaction. Not a word nor an expression. Nothing he can do that will convey what those words mean to him. Gene settles on pressing a kiss to Sam’s head and muttering into his hair.

“You’re so very young.”

Watching the plane go is a bitter kind of sweet. He has all the hope in the universe, aimed towards an unknown conclusion. He's watching Sam leave him again, feeling like it's the end of everything, even though he knows this time it's just the beginning.

And it's bizarre, Gene thinks, how little some people change.


	16. epilogue: changes

The postcards always make him smile. He puts them up on the fridge next to the photograph Sam gave him at the airport. They've been coming less and less frequently over the past couple of weeks and Gene doesn't know whether to be thankful or miserable.

The latest is the shortest of the messages so far. A simple, "I'm gonna climb this mountain. It looks really wicked. I bet I could get some amazing photos." Gene rolls his eyes to himself and places it message-side up, alongside a picture of Ayers Rock, simply because he knows the juxtaposition would annoy Sam.

"The rock is not a mountain," a voice says from behind him. "Though, granted, you can climb it."

For a second he thinks it's an auditory hallucination. He swivels on the spot and wills himself not to gasp.

If anything, Sam's even more devastating with a tan. Long-limbed and golden, hair turned sun-streaked. He looks slightly older, but somehow even more vital.

"Three months, Tyler. It's been three measly months."

"They weren't measly, they were interminable. Hour after hour," Sam says.

He steps into Gene's space, hands settling on his sides, possessive. Gene's careful not to mirror him, anxious not to appear too overjoyed at his deal-breaking sudden appearance.

"And in those endless hours all I could think about was you," Sam continues, "stuck here, likely just as bored and alone as I felt. It didn't seem right."

Gene narrows his eyes. "For all you knew, I was laughing it up."

"Weren't though, were you?" Sam asks.

"Might have been. They've opened up a senior centre down the road. There are dance classes every Tuesday."

Sam ignores Gene's deflection, becoming more intent. "Come with me, Gene. We'll refund the tickets, choose somewhere quiet and out of the way."

"We've had this discussion."

"I know. I wasn't satisfied with the result."

Gene sighs and Sam keeps talking, taking full advantage of his obviously weakening state. He tugs Gene closer, settling one of his thighs between Gene's.

"There's so much of this world you haven't seen. Don't deny it, because we both know it's true. It doesn't have to be. We can investigate together."

There's something of the siren in Sam, Gene decides. He doesn't know why he hasn't realised it before. And yes, he may go crashing onto the rocks, but it'll be with a song in his heart.

Gene pierces Sam with a look. "You're gonna be the death of me."

Sam's smile is mischievous. "Haven't yet, despite my best efforts."

"Oi, cheeky."

The smile widens into a fully-fledged grin. "There's nothing to lose and everything to gain, so why not just capitulate to my will? We both know it'll happen eventually anyway."

"I have some self-respect."

"Can't fathom why. Not if you're foolish enough to turn down an offer like this."

Sam rocks his hips forward, slides one hand into Gene's hair, pulls him down for a kiss.

There's an unfaltering logic to his words. Rationality that Gene has fought so hard for a year and a half.

"Mexico," he says. "Why don't we go to Mexico?"

Sam's grin is radiant. "Mexico," he repeats. "Sounds wonderful."

 

*

Gene hasn't been on an aeroplane in decades and that knowledge is stirring his guts, but he's not going to inform Sam of this fact. To be truthful, he's unwilling to admit to himself that it might be fear of flying. He attributes it to Jackson house-sitting, Ruth's reaction when they come back, and the fate of the community centre in his absence.

He tries to distract himself with in-depth conversation. It doesn't entirely work.

"Had any thoughts about your future beyond this?" he asks, purposefully avoiding looking out the window.

“I had a lot of time to think, you know, on planes… trains…”

Gene interjects. “Automobiles.”

“Yeah. I kept asking myself, ‘what do I want from life?’ and for a long time, the only answer was you. But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that I still want to help people. I want to change the world one person at a time." Sam pauses, taps his fingers against his tray. "I was thinking teaching.”

“Teaching? You? Give over,” Gene replies.

“What, no good?”

“You just want week upon week of holidays, that’s why you think it’s a good idea. Imagine it for real; a class full of snotty-nosed tossbags who think they know everything. It’d be like having thirty clones in the room.”

“Not teaching then. Okay. Well, how about counselling? Listening to people’s problems, giving advice. The kind of thing where you’ve gotta be strong and detached but in tune with your emotions.”

Gene considers this. He has to admit, it sounds apt. The kind of stressful Sam would thrive on.

“Don’t think I don’t see what you did there. Telling me one thing so that I can dismiss it, only to tell me the one you really want in prime position where I’d look nothing but curmudgeonly if I shot it down.”

“You know me too well.”

“Don’t I know it. You really want to listen to other people’s aches and pains all the time?”

There's a sparkle in Sam's eyes as he answers. “I’m with you, aren’t I?”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Scowl](https://archiveofourown.org/works/193611) by [basaltgrrl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/basaltgrrl/pseuds/basaltgrrl)




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